I still remember my first Thanksgiving in
prison. I was assigned to the Holliday
Unit at the time, an unlikely name for a prison
unit. The unit is located on Interstate
45 north of Huntsville, Texas. It extends
for half a mile from front entrance to back gate. The unit houses more than 2000 residents, and
is designated as a transfer facility,
intended to hold men for no more than two years before they are assigned
to a permanent unit.
I had been incarcerated for a little more
than a year including county jail time, and had lingered at Holliday for ten
months with no job assignment and minimal activity. The meals were grim. We had to walk to the
chow hall and appointments with our hands behind our backs, and we were treated
with a level of contempt that still saddens me today. Officers yelled,
threatened, and ridiculed. Often, a female lieutenant looked at us with such derision
that her lips seemed to curl and purse automatically, as though the sight of us
made her want to spit. She would enter
the dormitory and threaten to release tear gas, because the 100 bored inmates
were talking too loudly.
Given my experience in prison up to that
point, nothing prepared me for Thanksgiving in prison. I walked slowly through
the chow hall line. When I reached the front I received a tray piled with food,
most of it quite good in comparison to what had been served during the
preceding year. They gave us plenty of time to eat, which didn’t stop me from
shoveling the food in my mouth before I had swallowed the previous bite. I had
learned that when the officer knocked on the table it was time to get up,
regardless of how much food was left on my plate.
When we walked out of the chow hall, the
Warden herself handed me a dessert plate to take with me back to the dorm. She wished me “Happy Thanksgiving” as though
I were a guest in her home. The Major and Captain stood next to the Warden and
both of them looked me directly in the eye and smiled warmly. I’ll never forget the experience.
I think back on that day with bitter-sweet
emotion. It cost the ranking officers nothing to treat us with dignity that
day. It did not compromise security, nor
did it send a message that the prison authorities approved of the crimes I had
committed. On that day, they reminded me
of our common humanity. They showed compassion for the fact that I had to spend
Thanksgiving away from my family.
Their kindness on that day took a small measure of shame away from me.
I think of what would happen in the lives
of the 150,000 people incarcerated in Texas if they were treated with dignity
every day of the year. I can find no
evidence to suggest that such treatment would minimize the intended effect of
being in prison. In fact, there is plenty of evidence from European prisons
that respectful treatment actually improves rehabilitation and helps people
adjust when they return home.
For me, the warmth I experienced on that
first Thanksgiving in prison reminded me that I was worthy of a smile despite
my mistakes. Treating people with dignity sends the message that they are more than
the worst thing they’ve ever done. Dignity
says that, while we all may have different accomplishments, the one thing we
share in common is a tendency to make mistakes.
Dignity was the sweetest gift on that dessert tray, and I never let it go.
If you are interested in becoming a volunteer
in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, go to https://www.tdcj.state.tx.us/divisions/rpd/rpd_volunteer.html
