Arriving at the notorious Attica prison back in 1978 was quite an experience...
Sitting in a Department of Corrections van handcuffed and shackled with leg irons, I was able to look out the vehicle's windows and see the outside of the facility as we approached. There it was, Attica. I thought it was the end of the road for me. I expected to spend the rest of my life behind its huge and intimidating stone walls.
From the outside Attica resembles a castle. Built around 1930, it was designed to scare the daylights out of newly arriving inmates. There was nothing welcoming about its design. Neither was there any cordiality shown towards me when I first encountered a platoon of guards whose job it was not only to process new arrivals, but to lay down the law as well. They gave me the "house rules" which consisted of a succession of "You'd better do as we say, or else" warnings.
The moment I stepped off the van I knew I was entering a world I had never before experienced. I felt trapped, and I was. There was no going back home. I was facing years of incarceration. The guards wasted no time telling me they were already taking bets on how long I would live in this place before I would be killed.
Now in the reception area for new arrivals, I was marched from room to room. I was examined by a nurse to see if I had a pulse. I did. She checked my ears to see if I had any wax, and I did. She listened to my heart to see if I had a heartbeat. I did. End of exam.
Next was the issuing of my green prison uniform, prison issued underwear and socks, and a pair of ill-fitting boots. Then came the standard issue of hygiene articles. Into my hands went a toothbrush, a genetic brand of toothpaste, a bar of soap, a washcloth and two green hand towels, and an absolutely needed roll of toilet paper.
Once my hands were full of clothing and the standard collection of supplies, there was yet one more stop, the laundry area. Here the lady who was in charge handed me my bedding: two once white sheets, and a pillowcase, all of which looked as if they'd been washed and reused a hundred times. And they probably were.
Next was the long walk through a warren of bleak corridors until I got to my cell. It looked just like I saw in the movies. A toilet, a small sink with just enough room to put my hands in, a cast iron bunk with a thin cotton mattress, and an equally thin pillow. Home sweet home? Not really. But this was it, and I thought to myself, maybe forever.
D. B.
From the outside Attica resembles a castle. Built around 1930, it was designed to scare the daylights out of newly arriving inmates. There was nothing welcoming about its design. Neither was there any cordiality shown towards me when I first encountered a platoon of guards whose job it was not only to process new arrivals, but to lay down the law as well. They gave me the "house rules" which consisted of a succession of "You'd better do as we say, or else" warnings.
The moment I stepped off the van I knew I was entering a world I had never before experienced. I felt trapped, and I was. There was no going back home. I was facing years of incarceration. The guards wasted no time telling me they were already taking bets on how long I would live in this place before I would be killed.
Now in the reception area for new arrivals, I was marched from room to room. I was examined by a nurse to see if I had a pulse. I did. She checked my ears to see if I had any wax, and I did. She listened to my heart to see if I had a heartbeat. I did. End of exam.
Next was the issuing of my green prison uniform, prison issued underwear and socks, and a pair of ill-fitting boots. Then came the standard issue of hygiene articles. Into my hands went a toothbrush, a genetic brand of toothpaste, a bar of soap, a washcloth and two green hand towels, and an absolutely needed roll of toilet paper.
Once my hands were full of clothing and the standard collection of supplies, there was yet one more stop, the laundry area. Here the lady who was in charge handed me my bedding: two once white sheets, and a pillowcase, all of which looked as if they'd been washed and reused a hundred times. And they probably were.
Next was the long walk through a warren of bleak corridors until I got to my cell. It looked just like I saw in the movies. A toilet, a small sink with just enough room to put my hands in, a cast iron bunk with a thin cotton mattress, and an equally thin pillow. Home sweet home? Not really. But this was it, and I thought to myself, maybe forever.
D. B.
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