Gina's Personal Stories
# 816812
Growing up, I never dreamed I would be reduced to a number. I wanted to be a ballerina or a famous singer. I learned at a young age that dreams are just that-dreams. I grew up in an abusive home. I ran away and never went back. I began a life of hardships and hard lessons. I started my criminal activity the day I ran away. I was stealing from the Safeway dumpsters and sleeping in abandoned cars or twenty-four hour laundry mats. I began dealing marijuana for a few dollars each day to eat and to pay people so I could shower in their homes while their parents were at work. I graduated to smoking and selling cocaine. I was a street monger. Eventually, I became hooked on Methamphetamine, it became my only friend and in the end, my worst nightmare. Crime does not pay.
It is still dark as I wake up. It is cold and drafty and I am terrified. How am I going to do it? Can I do it? I have been so weak. How have I let everything go so wrong? My heart begins to race and I start to sweat, but I refuse to cry when I see the uniformed officers come to my cell. The shackles clank as they swing on the belts of the officers. They talk to each other and look at me with disdain. They are disgusted with criminals and do not hide their anger. They are the same officers that were at my sentencing hearing when the judge told me that I was a menace to society and a waste of air. I have been sentenced to 119 months in prison and they are coming to take me away to serve my time.
I get handcuffed to the shackles that encircle my waist and connect to the ankle cuffs that trap my legs. It hurts. The cuffs around my ankles are so tight that I almost break and ask for the officers to loosen them, but I don’t, I can’t speak. I get walked like a dog on a leash to a big white hollow box. It’s the transport truck and it is so cold that my breath is frigid in my face. My teeth chatter and I scoot to the corner of the metal bench seat. I don’t want to talk to the other women; what is there to say? There are no seat belts, no heat, and definitely no radio in the back of this ride. There is a metal door that separates us from the cab of the truck. I wonder if the officers are warm? How do they know we’re even still back here? I notice a camera right above my head and it is staring with its evil eye on all of us. I feel like a sardine in a can waiting to be devoured.
The drive is bumpy and I am stiffening my muscles to make sure I don’t fall off the metal bench. It stinks of body odor and urine. I wonder if we all smell like that, or if it smells from the several trips this truck makes every week. I wonder how many other people have taken this drive. There are no stops. Lunch will be served in a sack upon arrival at the prison. I don’t think my stomach could take any food because I feel so lost and unprepared for this new life. I am afraid.
We finally arrive after four hours of the grueling and uneventful ride. The first thing I notice is the razor wire fence. It looks ominous and stands 15 feet high with what looks like chicken wire and razor blade after razor blade that encircles the top. The gate opens and closes with the finality of my sentence finally sinking in. I need an officer’s assistance to step out of the meat wagon. My ankles are swollen and numb and I almost fall. I am escorted into the holding area where we are searched thoroughly and dressed in tan jeans and a tan button up shirt.The stiffness and unfamiliarity of the uniform feels like a potato sack wrapped around my body. I am then run through a seies of tests. They ask if I am suicidal, pregnant, and angry enough to hurt someone. Do I have any enemies or diseases? I answer “no” quietly and am served my lunch. It’s green bologna and smells of rotten meat, my favorite. After six hours of tests and waiting, I am finally given a used, old, dirty towel and bedding, and I am escorted to my first prison cell, my new home for the next six weeks until they classify me.
I am in a 10’ by 12’cement room with 2 beds; one is stacked on top of the other. I am assigned the top bunk as my roommate has health issues and deserves the bottom bunk. The lights never go off. They are on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I am told we are allowed out of our cells for meals and one hour a day to make phone calls. We will be mandated to classes that run psychological tests to see where we will be housed. We will march to the chow hall in military style. No one who is in general population is allowed to speak to us. I feel as if I am on display in a zoo.
I am now just a number: # 816812. That will be my name for the next decade of my life. I hear the loud cling of the door shutting and the keys of the officer as he walks away. I can’t cry out loud or they will think I am weak and easy prey. I can’t be mad at anyone except myself; I committed the crimes that brought me here.
I see a small window by my top bunk. I walk over and look out and see a small chirping bird perched on the razor wire fence and I cry out, “Fly away.” I am alone and a piece of me dies that day. I start to reflect on my life and the choices I have made. What is wrong inside of me? Why can’t I just be normal? Every time I looked for the answers I placed blame. It dawned on me that my excuses kept me in the lifestyle of crime and drugs. I have been willing to die for the streets and as a statistic for too long. My roommate snores so loud that it shakes my top bunk, and I realize that I need to change. I want to change because crime does not pay.
It is still dark as I wake up. It is cold and drafty and I am terrified. How am I going to do it? Can I do it? I have been so weak. How have I let everything go so wrong? My heart begins to race and I start to sweat, but I refuse to cry when I see the uniformed officers come to my cell. The shackles clank as they swing on the belts of the officers. They talk to each other and look at me with disdain. They are disgusted with criminals and do not hide their anger. They are the same officers that were at my sentencing hearing when the judge told me that I was a menace to society and a waste of air. I have been sentenced to 119 months in prison and they are coming to take me away to serve my time.
I get handcuffed to the shackles that encircle my waist and connect to the ankle cuffs that trap my legs. It hurts. The cuffs around my ankles are so tight that I almost break and ask for the officers to loosen them, but I don’t, I can’t speak. I get walked like a dog on a leash to a big white hollow box. It’s the transport truck and it is so cold that my breath is frigid in my face. My teeth chatter and I scoot to the corner of the metal bench seat. I don’t want to talk to the other women; what is there to say? There are no seat belts, no heat, and definitely no radio in the back of this ride. There is a metal door that separates us from the cab of the truck. I wonder if the officers are warm? How do they know we’re even still back here? I notice a camera right above my head and it is staring with its evil eye on all of us. I feel like a sardine in a can waiting to be devoured.
The drive is bumpy and I am stiffening my muscles to make sure I don’t fall off the metal bench. It stinks of body odor and urine. I wonder if we all smell like that, or if it smells from the several trips this truck makes every week. I wonder how many other people have taken this drive. There are no stops. Lunch will be served in a sack upon arrival at the prison. I don’t think my stomach could take any food because I feel so lost and unprepared for this new life. I am afraid.
We finally arrive after four hours of the grueling and uneventful ride. The first thing I notice is the razor wire fence. It looks ominous and stands 15 feet high with what looks like chicken wire and razor blade after razor blade that encircles the top. The gate opens and closes with the finality of my sentence finally sinking in. I need an officer’s assistance to step out of the meat wagon. My ankles are swollen and numb and I almost fall. I am escorted into the holding area where we are searched thoroughly and dressed in tan jeans and a tan button up shirt.The stiffness and unfamiliarity of the uniform feels like a potato sack wrapped around my body. I am then run through a seies of tests. They ask if I am suicidal, pregnant, and angry enough to hurt someone. Do I have any enemies or diseases? I answer “no” quietly and am served my lunch. It’s green bologna and smells of rotten meat, my favorite. After six hours of tests and waiting, I am finally given a used, old, dirty towel and bedding, and I am escorted to my first prison cell, my new home for the next six weeks until they classify me.
I am in a 10’ by 12’cement room with 2 beds; one is stacked on top of the other. I am assigned the top bunk as my roommate has health issues and deserves the bottom bunk. The lights never go off. They are on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I am told we are allowed out of our cells for meals and one hour a day to make phone calls. We will be mandated to classes that run psychological tests to see where we will be housed. We will march to the chow hall in military style. No one who is in general population is allowed to speak to us. I feel as if I am on display in a zoo.
I am now just a number: # 816812. That will be my name for the next decade of my life. I hear the loud cling of the door shutting and the keys of the officer as he walks away. I can’t cry out loud or they will think I am weak and easy prey. I can’t be mad at anyone except myself; I committed the crimes that brought me here.
I see a small window by my top bunk. I walk over and look out and see a small chirping bird perched on the razor wire fence and I cry out, “Fly away.” I am alone and a piece of me dies that day. I start to reflect on my life and the choices I have made. What is wrong inside of me? Why can’t I just be normal? Every time I looked for the answers I placed blame. It dawned on me that my excuses kept me in the lifestyle of crime and drugs. I have been willing to die for the streets and as a statistic for too long. My roommate snores so loud that it shakes my top bunk, and I realize that I need to change. I want to change because crime does not pay.