Harszewski
Blog #1660

7-18-22

They Did it to Me! (Part 2)

I wrote earlier about some of the drama and trauma that occurred when I was forced to move from a Level 3 to a Level 2 prison, and I imagine some people will assume that my resistance doesn't make sense. After all, isn't the Level 3 more restrictive and dangerous? In general, yes, it can be. But I've rarely worried about overall dangerousness and sometimes restrictiveness can be a positive feature.

To be clear, I categorically reject the concept of freedom in prison, period. It's ridiculous, even offensive, to hear people talk about having "more freedom" in such-and-such prison. Bullshit. If I can't walk 100 feet in a straight line in any direction without being murdered by a sniper preventing my "escape," then I'm not remotely close to being free. It doesn't matter what "amnesties" my captors gild the cage with, no amount of baubles or distracting pastimes will ever amount to freedom. Now I admit I'm not too sure what does amount to freedom anymore, but I'm certain about what does now: a ping pong table and easier access to shower definitely does not count.

If I don't care about the little Level 2 "quality of life" (excuse my trying not to choke on that phrase), then what does matter to me? My abhorrence of this new prison is entirely about its basic arrangement. At the Level 3, I was kept in a two-person cell. Small, yes, and with two locked into that tiny bathroom with beds in it, it can be a miserable experience, no question. It can be very hard to find a compatible cellmate. But if you do manage it, life (such as it is) improves exponentially.

Better still, one often has no cellmate at all and, in those times, you are... alone! Blissfully alone. And there is peace, and there is even a measure of something surprisingly like freedom. Alone, one has time, which may sound strange. But for me, time is always what I lack most in prison. In prison, during the nonsleeping hours, so, so much time is just... wasted. Trashed by endless waiting and squandered by relentless stress. But if you can step into a room, even just a dismal little cage, and shut the door behind you—suddenly all your thoughts and actions become your own for a few mentally and physically replenishing hours.

That is the great promise of being kept in a two-person cell, and I know very well. I don't even want one cellmate, so what the hell am I supposed to do with FIVE of them?

My issue isn't nearly as simple as a seemingly selfish distaste for proximity to others though. It's about my fundamental incompatibility with the typical prisonese personality. I have so little capacity left for dealing with the SAME OLD CRAP. It's exhausting. The same stupid conversations and jokes and arguments and myths—all recycled endlessly through hundreds and hundreds of seemingly cloned characters, caricatures, really, all with essentially identical perspectives and mindless, monotonous commentary. I'm just terribly tired of it all, especially the endlessly recycled arguments.

Simple factual matters that should be easily settled with a quick experiment (e.g. having the fluorescent light on in the summer does not make the cell hot—the sunbaked concrete walls do that, and you only need to touch the light fixture once to feel that it is cool) or more abstract issues of broader social implications and infinitely deeper insanity (e.g. the "government" does not "register" you at birth, so your "true self" can be traded on some global market like a Wall Street commodity, making your "real name" worth $70,000 or $2,000,000 or whatever other dollar figure they've latched onto, all of which anyone can demand in cash from the "government," so long as they know the right shibboleth and how to write it to force the hand hand of the shady traders who purport to own us... Ugh. :/). These are common and recurrent prisoner myths, popping up perennially like an old herpes infection. The more people you deal with in prison, the more likely you'll be dropped into these and two dozen similar ridiculousness over and over again. It's f'n exhausting.

My biggest fear, though, by FAR of going to a six-person cage is noise. Few prison people have the slightest awareness of how not to be obtrusive, selfish scumbags. The primary demonstration of this incompetence is the extraordinary amount of noise they make during all waking hours, no matter what anyone else around them is trying to do. They may sing loudly, whistle constantly, bang out beats on any and all metal surfaces within reach. But worst of all, many of those assholes have torture devices...

They call them boomboxes. I call them assault weapons.

If they have them, they play them LOUDLY. Constantly. Disrespectfully. It's bad enough in the two-person cell, where each is connected to the neighbor by an open grate so you can hear their music from your wall as if you had a built-in speaker with no volume control or off switch. There can be—there are—fights over this (I've had one, sadly), but most inmates without radios just put up with the dicks who do.

It is literally torturous, and I've been tortured by it for years. It's clearly caused PTSD in me, and I'll never forget the beautiful summer day I was walking to my friend Coby's house, passing a Mexican restaurant—which smelled delicious—and suddenly inexplicably feeling the hairs on my neck rise, full of anxiety, high alert. What the hell was happening? Everything seemed perfect. Yet all of a sudden, I was a total wreck, vaguely angry, ready to fight. It was absurd. Then it hit me: mariachi music. Accordions. The happy, upbeat sound I used to associate with family and good food. That's what affected me so badly. See, that sound was the primary torture inflicted on me in prison, and it had broken me to some degree.

The worst moment still haunts me. A 120 degree day outside with no air conditioning inside. I was sweating and stripped to my underwear when the aural onslaught began. It was relentless. As I tried to write, I soon had the air vents fully covered with toilet paper to block the main source of the noise, then every crack in the door. The cell became a stifling sauna of hot, still air. And noise. I could feel the music. I ended up huddled in a corner with my sheets and blankets wrapped around my baking cranium, ears stuffed with soggy TP, and still I could feel the vibrations. That was truly torture, and it plainly affected me. Along with a hundred similar incidents over the years.

In a two-person cell, where I was, it's possible to avoid some of the worst things about prison simply by limiting your exposure to others. In this six-person cell, you can never, ever, be alone nor can you control who you are around. It's basically the design a true sadist would come up with if he were feeling especially nasty. Even in a larger open dorm of 50 to 100 people, there's something resembling solitude. In that environment there generally isn't anyone trying to "run things" for everybody, and it's fairly easy to be left alone since people largely ignore those they don't regularly interact with. In a six-person dorm, everyone is deeply into everyone else's business, endlessly passing judgments and copious amounts of gas.

It works well for the gossipy types, not so well for anyone who just wants to be left alone to read, write, or think. And yet you invariably find yourself surrounded by people you'd do everything in your power to avoid in the real world: racists, bullies, misogynists, paranoiacs, ceaseless chatterers, egomaniacs, creepy stalkers—those who feel some kind of personal investment in you. How can one get stuck with five randos in this environment and not end up clashing with one or two? That would be like winning the lottery.

Then, for me, with my stupid, pathological hypersensitivity to blatantly discourteous radio or TV noise, to end up caged with one of those types, much less in a cluster of them.... That scenario simply doesn't end well for me. I'd ask for their consideration, they'd reject the overture, possibly we'd fight. More likely, in a largely non-violent Level 2, they'd respond with a wave of passive aggression and continue the torture. Perhaps I'd end up disposing of their offensive noisemaker, but then what? No good comes of this. My future gets compromised. That's why I resisted this move so strongly.

As things have turned out (so far—it's only been about a week), I did get really lucky. I won that lottery, so to speak. But such a lucky situation can change at any moment. Looking around me, I see so much of exactly what I'd feared most. Right next door, right below me. If I'd landed there rather than here, I'd certainly wouldn't have lasted. And that's the norm.

I really shouldn't be here and, while I hope things continue to go well, I know they may not. Not sure what that will ultimately look like for me but, very likely, it means a severe crash in my ability to accomplish the few things I actually want to do with this ruined husk of a life I have left. I certainly don't intend to spend it being tortured, if that can be avoided.

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Since there's a little space left, a good quote or two. :)

"Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities."
—Voltaire

"One has a moral obligation to disobey unjust laws."
—MLK Jr.
(I'm sure I've used this one already, but... it bears repeating, doesn't it?)

I've been moved! If you'd like to write me directly, please send snail mail to:

Dymitri Harszewski
AC2622 E-Yard
P.O. Box 409090
Ione, CA 95640