Hard times
Nothing’s nice in women’s prison
STEVE CULLEN is a
junior advertising major
and a Daily Nebraskan
columnist.
Late February in the Midwest is a
hard time.
The ripping of a long winter’s
winds leaves tattered resolves ready
for the light of a spring tunnel. Despite
desires, there is only more gray.
While refueling our auto in York,
I took some time to think about what
I would soon see and experience.
Gang violence and heroin addicts,
life’s washouts and lost causes flash
ing before us in a circus jamboree of
societal rejection and mass rebellion.
All thoughts of well honed cyni
cism, but there was still a reason for
them being out there.
The answer lays only miles away:
The town now left behind us, a
amnn nf lie r»n n tmir nut nntn a
flat strip of road. There before us, on
the highest rise in the countryside,
was our destination: the Women’s
Correctional Center.
There is only one prison for
women in this state, a common
theme in this country. Most states
house all of their female inmates in
one location.
The ground crunched as we made
our way down the thin path toward
the one and only passageway leading
to the external world. Towering sky
ward and enclosing the tight path
stood the great reminders and
dividers: the fences.
Stacked three deep, looped with
_ razor wire, and as cold and indolent
as the ripping wind, they begged the
question of human nature: Think you
can jump me?
r The floodgate
After identifying ourselves, we
stood shivering there before the
“open door” buzzer echoed off.
With a scrape and clank, the
security bolt drew back. We stepped
through the door into a holding hall
way beside security headquarters:
Control One. Tight packed and
* defrosting in the small sealed-off
room, we deposited all of our pock
et’s contents.
Another buzzer sounded and in
walked a large woman and man. The
crisp heel-toe slap that only heavy
boots can make finished with a tiny
jingle of the various metal-made
A series of commands: “Arms
out Hands against the wall. Take off
your shoes. Spread your legs.” A
flurry of patting whirled around me
and revealed a pair of keys.
“You forgot to check these. No
problem, no, but think next time.
They’re not keys - they’re weapons.”
Another buzzer sounded and we
passed through the next dead brown
* door into the quiet, yellow walled
visitors room. There we met Rudy, a
well-spoken minister of business
like demeanor and mild mannerism.
We received our first brief^The^e are
always briefs. The answer to all
requests was no, or I’ll ask about it.
No gum. No bags. No cash. No
change. No jewelry. No nothing.
“We have a minor drug problem
filtering into the system. That’s why
there are no hats or braids in your
hair either.”
Standing in the middle of the
vacant room, a series of statistics.
There were 157 prisoners in the facil
ity. The prison was overcrowded in
1995 when there was 125 prisoners.
Sentences for women ranged
fife-. ■
r
from an average minimum of four
years, three months, to the upper
average of eight years, seven and a
half months. Some prisoners were
just in holding for extradition or
serving partial sentencing in
Nebraska. That’s important to under
stand. The population is always
being mixed - fluid and stagnant at
the same time.
I would learn prisons cherish
order and routines more than any
other single thing. The mix of prison
ers and their varied sentences chal
lenge that. But there is no way around
it No matter how long or how many,
the corrections center had to accom
modate. It’s the only show in town.
Of the inmates at the women’s
prison, 47 percent are in for forgery
or fraud, 45 percent for crimes
against people, 32 percent for drug
related offenses and 11 percent on
weapons charges. Of all convictions,
45 percent are violent offenses and
only 27 percent of inmates are multi
ple offenders - percentages far less
than expected.
fVta fanilih; Vioo
maximum security capabilities, 56
percent of prisoners are in on mini
mum security levels, and 33 percent
in medium security.
“In the event of a riot and assault
or other outbreak, stay out of
the way,” our guide told us. tiUm
“Let us take care of it. We are Jfl
all trained in how to control
these situations.” dfl
While all this was said, Jfl"ijit|l[|j,|ji
focus rested on the rack of jfl
shotguns and the guard
seen through the window
who was monitoring the
waiting room. Everything fl
gets monitored.
I joined the group in FFlB
another hall, just managing
to catch the heavy door MB
(every room has a heavy *ljfl
brown door). Rudy just llfl
kept giving the tour, , mflfl
telling us not to hold
open doors. I let it go and
it automatically sealed JP? flfl
shut. Everything around
here gets sealed shut.
Health and fitness
The next room we :jE'" sifl
came to was the mess
hall. Over time, I would
come to know that the
bulk of prisoner com
plaints came from dietary
concerns, and I would
hear of health problems
emanating from the provi
sions.
“This over here is the
rock pile,” Rudy continued,
pointing .to the weight room.
“Not as much use as in men’s
facilities.” *
Prisons, after debating
allowing their inmates to get bigger
and stronger, decided to allow their
prisoners to exercise to focus ten
sions and prevent health problems.
They also could use it as a
reward/punishment tool.
Revoking it would be a source of
great angst to a male prisoner. Here,
silence.
Robin Ogle, a criminal justice
professor at UNL, said the lack of
exercise was troubling, and said aer
obics would work better
Podr diits and poojmtrffess aret^fc
a good combination. If you’ve ever
been really bored and walked around
the house snacking on things, picture
that - for six or seven years.
Marshall Lux, from the state’s
ombudsman office, the governmen
tal agency that handles complaints,
said medical service complaints
were common.
Ogle said that often, hospitals
were not located in the prisons, and
staffing was second-rate most times.
These factors, added to low prepara
tion for health problems and inade
quate evaluation means, put inmates
on a thin line for disaster.
No matter what though, the
prison has to accommodate.
Living quarters
In another building, the critical
issues of prison life were explained.
We were in the barracks now, and we
were told that the prison is a fluid
place. It is a small vacuum by design.
Untainted by outside air, and unable
to decompress, pressure shifts the
balance in every comer. For every
action, there is another - but in here,
nothing is equal.
The prison has no money for
additional housing. No money for
better beds. It means prisoners share
a military style bunk room that hous
es too many in too little. It means
they toss and you turn. They sneeze
and you sniffle. All one can do is sit
- and absorb pressure.
Time is boundless, and it must be
spent. Kick, scream, push and pull,
and it doesn’t end. These women
must sit - and think.
The hope is that over time, if
forced to sit and think enough, these
women will change.
There are programs and therapy
groups, but time is the real tool here.
Without “proper progress,” state
funds are withheld. The GED is as
much for the prison as for the prison
er. The number who have taken the
GED, their scores and just about
everything else are stored in records,
ready to answer state inquiries.
In the other room is a more for
mal cubical sectioned classroom. In
a place where time is everything, one
would assume the prisoners’ minds
would be so hungry for use they
would gorge themselves on every
lesson around. The truth is they are
eager, and incredibly appreciative of
volunteer help, but troubled with
focus. They haven’t had to concen
trate before - thus, the cubes.
While tutoring, that lack of con
centration would come out, and if
you let it, it would sing a song. A sad
song. About a scar. About a husband
drunk or high, raged or homy, storm
ing in. About him swinging and them
fighting. Her head goes through a
glass table, and now the scar lives
from that day on.
The next tune is sung from the
scar on a murderer’s hand. The
stitches tell of the time her husband
fell prey to post-traumatic stress dis
order. He stalked around the house,
hostile fire all around, and she was
the enemy. He bears in, she dives for
they want then?
Tigers, cubs and solitude
Nebraska has a feature shared
only with New York: a nursery in the
Nebraska Correctional Center for
Women. Even though only 29.5 per
cent of these women were in legally
recognized relationships, the average
number of children per inmate is 2.
Many come in with their own
families, or are pregnant on arrival.
It’s been shown that the initial moth
er-infant contact is very important to
bonding. The prison is attempting to
help these mothers when they leave.
The nursery is the only cozy
room in the complex: - softer lights,
throw blankets and soft chairs were
jumbled around the little sanctuary.
In it sat a woman and a small infant.
Her crime held no weight with the
small child. Women have periodic
visitation rights with their families
and newborns. It is the understand
ing that life must go on, despite the
fences.
Outside
Walking out of the building, I
saw it then, in my mind’s eye, but it
might as well have been real.
Huddled by the fence, frenzied eyes
Learning curve
Our next room was the first time
we would see the education center
for the prison - a place I would
spend a lot of time in during the fol
lowing months as a GED tutor.
With yellow walls and lime green
tiles, the two rooms look like a sec
ond-grade classroom. Pictures of
historical figures, old and tattered,
are haphazardly fastened to the wall.
^ toone Toom were the thin-legged
brown tab!&used ?<5>rf&peh discus
sion groups and a television for edu
cational programming. It was here I
would spend many hours with one
particular inmate. I helped her pre
pare for her GED, and I saw again all
the frustrations that I went through
with grammar.
She cared very little about what
' she was studying. To her, it was just a
job. Women are paid $.62 a day to
come take the GED course. But it is
not an easy wage. Every assignment
is graded. Every aspect is measured.
Learning is reduced to a number.
w
a blade, fends him off, but the scar is
bom.
The images fade. She sits before
you, and the tune ends.
In my life, I have met five
women who’ve murdered. All were
abused. All killed to survive.
Teachers were just as much
guards as mentors. Prisoners had to
ask for permission to go to the
restroom and for other tasks. It was
n’t the asking I found odd - it was
the administering.
Some women are capable of total
MmafowmmlWt&tP
and system wants the goal to be
reached. There in the front of the pris
oner rests desire and purpose, maybe
in the way never known to her before.
But for how long?
I left there my last day feeling as
I did the first day I was there.
Saddened that processes crumble by
the wayside. Answers, results and all
things tangible rule that world. The
pursuit of knowledge is valued in so
far as $.62 will go. When the $.62 is
gone, when the pressures of esoteric
pursuits no longer exist, what will
Matt Haney/DN
darting in every direction, crouched
a prisoner.
Bleeding, sweat-glistening hands
worked furiously with a tool at the
so-hated links of the fence.
With an opening, she shimmies
through, and starts to run.
Oh freedom. Lonely, delicious
freedom.
It was then that I finally saw what
I had been looking at all along: the
struggle for these women’s lives.
side, now in here. Always there are
fences, and guards, and fear.
And what they wouldn’t do to
break free. Free to hope for a better
life. Free from oppression. Free from
the fences.
“So how was it?” Rudy asks me.
“Cold. All of it”
We took our belongings from tin
boxes and stepped to another heavy
steel door. A buzzer sounded, and the
door opened.
And then I stepped outside. Out
into the cold.