Until recently, I never dreamed that I would ever know anyone in prison, let alone make a regular habit out of visiting a prison.
But in the past year, a lot has changed in my life.
I now feel completely comfortable and quite at home during my time inside the walls, and in case you haven't had this experience for yourself, please let me share it with you.
Part One: From waking up to walking into the visiting room
Part Two: Happy times in the visiting room.
Part Three: On the other side of the wall.
Part Four: The women in the van
* * * * *
My alarm blasts me out of bed around 3:30 or 4:00 am and that is unquestionably the worst part of the entire day. Once I'm up and moving, the adrenaline kicks in and I feel the holiday mood take over.
I'm going to visit prison today!
Sometimes we drive ourselves the 279 miles to Washington State Penitentiary; I also take advantage of a van service that provides free rides to people going to visit their loved ones in prison. Either way, I'm on the road before the crack of dawn, traveling over the mountain pass, down to the Columbia River, and across the farmlands full of wheat, hops and grapevines on a route that runs diagonally across most of the state.
The mood is typically festive. My friends and fellow travelers are usually just as happy and excited to be on their way to a visit as I am. But that is not always the case. Sometimes, there are people in the van who are quiet and withdrawn. I understand that they are likely dealing with the complex emotions and vulnerabilities that can come from seeing your son, your father, your husband in prison, and I feel very protective of them.
We doze along the way. We talk. We stop for coffee and food and restroom breaks. We stretch and groan and check our watches, anxious to arrive on time.
And around 10 am, we roll through the prison gates.
Along the entrance drive. The guard towers remind me of miniature lighthouses.
The man I visit is assigned to a Close Custody housing unit, what used to be called Maximum Security. Those buildings are on the west side of the sprawling property: terbaru, clean, and surprisingly attractive. A guard house protects the entrance to this side of the prison but there's almost never anyone inside. We drive inside the prison grounds without stopping. Razor coils and guard towers top the fences to the left of the entrance drive; on the right runs the long, lean, low horizon of golden fields and bright blue sky.
Okay so this day it was definitely cloudy in Walla Walla. But I'm sure it was a rare exception.
Seems like it's always sunny in Walla Walla.
We leave all our possessions in the car, bringing in only what we are allowed inside.
Driver's license
Prison debit card
Cash to put on the card
Car keys
And our phones.
We can't take our car keys or our phones to the visit, but we can leave them in small lockers inside the visitors' check-in center. Phones don't like to spend the day out in the 100 degree heat.
Check in begins at 10:15 am. We line up at a counter and in turn, announce our loved one's prison ID number and present our own identification. The corrections officer checks to be sure we are registered visitors, with a photo and an authorization to be searched on arsip. And then the officer checks on the status of our loved one.
This is a critical moment. Inmates can be denied visits for any sort of infraction, and while the prison does its best to communicate with families and friends, they don't make any promises that our guys will always be available to visit when we show up. So we hold our breath until we are sure the visit is a go.
This is also the moment when the corrections officers inspect our outfits to ensure they meed the visitors' dress code. The list of violations is long and confusing:
No clothing that is orange or camo-colored; no grey sweatshirts.
No hoods, hats or scarves.
No cargo pants or extra zippers or pockets of any kind.
No sleeveless or low cut tops.
No leggings unless covered in front and back by a long top.
No ripped or torn jeans.
No more than one necklace, and three bracelets and rings, total.
And so on.
Sooner or later, we all run afoul of this large and mysterious body of rules and must either change into something from the prison loaner wardrobe or forfeit our right to visit. Experienced visitors often bring alternative outfits in their cars so they can run outside to change; I dodge the bullets by wearing the same outfit every time I visit.
Hey, the men we come to visit always wear the same thing so why shouldn't I?
Once, we are registered for the visit, there is time to load money on the prison debit card - up to $40 max - which we will use to buy food at the vending machines inside.
And then it's time for the security procedures.
First, we take off shoes, jewelry, belts, and anything else likely to trigger an alarm, and walk through the metal detector. Our bin of possessions goes through an x-ray device and sometimes passes under the nose of a drug-sniffing dog. We present the bottoms of our feet for inspection, and then get a black light ink stamp on our inner wrists.
We are then led one by one into a small room for a mouth inspection and a pat search, We stand with arms outstretched as a same-gendered corrections officer rubs her hands down our bodies, front and back. Once properly vetted, we are ushered to seats where we wait for everyone in our group to catch up.
Through this process, spirits are running high. Certainly the staff impresses upon us that this is serious business, and they maintain a professional authority over us. But we visitors are generally happy and chatty; over the months, the regulars get to know each other and we have our own reunions and conversations during this time of the day. Sometimes the corrections officers will chat with us too; the energy is surprisingly loose and relaxed and friendly.
The lay of the land.
Around 11 am, when all the visitors are processed and waiting, the corrections officers join us in the waiting area. The metal door clanks shut behind us, separating us from the check-in area. Now we are officially inside the prison. Then another metal door slides open ahead of us, and we move forward down a hallway and then outdoors.
We step out onto a concrete courtyard. We are surrounded by tall fences topped with razor coils. They glisten in the sun and look beautiful to me, despite their fierceness. Above us, the sky blazes blue. In the winter, the cold wind whips past us; in the summer, heat pounds down. To our right, we see the housing units of the men we have come to visit; on the left, we see the round building that houses the Death Row inmates. We feel very thankful that our men are where they are.
We cross this outdoor space - about the size of a tennis court - as the third door closes behind us and a tall gate in the chain link fence opens in front of us. We pass through to a second fenced area - much smaller than the first - and through another metal door into the entry of a small building. Once again, the door behind us must close before the one ahead will open, and now, with five locked barriers behind us and the outside world, we finally step into the visiting room.
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