A Strange Disruption to Trauma
I will never forget the moments that lead up to December 17, 2019: Transfer Day. I was having an issue with a correctional officer (CO) being disrespectful of my religious observance, my Shabbat prayers every Friday in the children’s center up near security. Every Friday, I walked from B Unit to the administration building at Whitworth Women's Facility. As I passed through gates, pushed security buttons,walked through heavy metal doors, I reached my destination. The lieutenant on duty would have my challah, grape juice, a lighter, candles, and a silo cup to prepare for Shabbat.
Friday the CO came with sarcasm, asking “who the fuck” allowed me to go anywhere. She bellowed, “Inmate, it’s shift change” and refused my exit to celebrate my faith. To humiliate me, she announced over the intercom, “anybody else need to go to security and pray with Wiesen?” What she failed to realize was that out of the 4 dorms, 3 of them fussed and cussed her, made beats on the glass to get attention, and window-signed to others to get loud. In support of me, the women were beating the composite glass windows to let me go. As I stood there in disbelief, I was being denied. A general population (GP) counselor came from her office and radioed the lieutenant, who then came running with other COs. The commotion was so loud, the CO stood frozen in her control booth.
As I stood there in my fresh flat iron pressed browns, siddur in hand, I waited and watched the smirk on her face melt into nothing. Lt Whitehead was scolding her in front of B Unit, some 200+ women’s faces pressed up on the glass, eagerly listening to the words erupting from his mouth, as spit flew. The Dorm 3 door clicked. There was an eruption of cheers and I was released, escorted by a team who came to my rescue. My departure was granted by Chap. and Warden Ford. It was clearly marked in the control room and on my schedule, yet this CO wanted to exercise control.
Morning insulin call came, and our favorite CO were working. Officer Dan, as we will call him, asked me if I was OK. The incident was logged, and they were briefed in morning roundup. I said no, and asked who I needed to speak with. He said, “Ms. Wiesen, not to worry, you won’t be here much longer, I saw your name on the list.” In my head, I’m screaming, “NO! I don’t want to be transferred.” He smiled, placed his hand on my shoulder. and said “it’s gonna be OK.” The CO giving me that information broke all security protocols, but it brought me peace and a traumaless exit, I hoped.
Tuesday, December 17th, 2019: Transfer Day. It was 3 a.m. and I was getting in the shower and dressing for my departure. I told no one I knew I was leaving, except my mom. Once I got out, dressed, and opened my locker, the night shift CO did his rounds and handed me 2 trash bags, one for my personal items and the other for Whitworth property. He said, “we are gonna miss you, Wiesen.” When it was time to go, I said my goodbyes, tears streaming. I loaded the buggy and made the schlep to intake.
This is when the anxiety and the dreaded feelings of transport came rushing in. Shit, I have to be strip searched three times today, padded down twice, ID’d, shackled, and loaded onto the van, only to do it all over again. Protocols in place and I feel like a herded animal. In intake, I waited to see which transport officers were arriving. I heard that laugh and sighed when Sargent Strange rounded the corner, paperwork in hand, a smile on her face. “Ms. Wiesen,” she said, “good morning.” A weak smile crossed my face and we began the process. Deep breath in and I exhale and said, "I am ready, ma'am".
“Ms. Wiesen,” Sgt. Strange said, “please go over to the curtain and undress and hand me your clothing.” Piece by piece I unbutton my shirt, remove my t-shirt, and hand it to Sgt. Strange. Next, I remove my pants and socks and stand in my bra and underwear. I hand her my clothes. She sees that I am shaking and in a calm voice says, “Ms Wiesen, I understand this is uncomfortable. However, you know we have to process you for transfer. Take a minute and please remove your bra.” I pull my sports bra over my head and hand it over and then as I slide the underwear over my hips and take one leg out at a time, I froze in fear, the AC-chilled linoleum floor underneath my feet stinging my toes.
I probably didn't know it then, but what I was suffering - yet again - was trauma, the kind of dehumanizing trauma that is never necessary to effectively manage workflows, even in prison. It's just trauma imposed by the system because it can - trauma by useless habit. But Sgt. Strange must have known it, and she apparently grew to understand that she could in some small but ever so meaningful way, re-set and respect our humanity. One human experience at a time.
From there, again in a calm voice, she asks me for my ponytail holder, and tells me to bend over while shaking my hair. “Open your mouth and stick out your tongue, to the right and left, please. Lift your tongue. Ms. Wiesen, please lift your right breast, now your left. Lift your FUPA (fat upper pelvic area) please. Now Ms, Wiesen, please turn around, bend at the waist, and spread your legs and your butt cheeks, enough so the vuvla is open to ensure you have nothing in the cavity of your vagina. Lift your right foot, now your left. Ms. Wiesen, please turn around.”
She thanked me and said, “I know this is very uncomfortable and I hope that I made this unpleasant search as comfortable as possible. I see that you are shaking and crying. Please take this sheet, drape, and compose yourself. Take your time, dear, then get dressed and meet me in the hallway. I took a deep breath, then crouched on the floor, sobbing, knowing that I would have to do this two more times until I reached my final destination. With all the strength I could muster, I stood and started to dress. Officer Jenkins came in, saw me, eyes red and swollen, and then did something no CO is allowed to do. She gave me a hug. And not the hug of a CO, but one with the warmth of a mother and a grandmother.
As we walked to the hallway, me in front of her, Sgt. Strange asked if I was ready. As I walked to the van, Sgt. Strange spoke with me, low and gentle, comforting me, assuring me I would be OK. I knew I would survive and I held her voice and face in my mind as I moved through the next three trips. She told me to remember to breathe and suggested that I go to a happy place in my mind. “This is going to be a long day, but you will get through it.”
As she finished, she spoke to the group and told us the next steps. “Ladies, we are now going to place the handcuffs on your wrists. I will try to make them as comfortable as possible. One by one, as the cold heavy metal was placed over our wrists, the teeth clamping shut, I shifted in my position trying to not let this moment overcome me. “Next, ladies, I am going to place the shackles on your feet.” Again, the feel of the steel enclosed around my ankles reminded me that I was anything but free. “Ladies, please turn around. I am going to gently touch you as we place the chains around your waists. Ladies, please, one by one, take a step and find your place in the van.”
As we load the van, the doors are closed and locked and radio transmissions begin between Whitworth and Lee Arrendale. Sgt. Strange turns and asks, “Ladies, are we ready? Take a breath and enjoy your view as much as possible as we depart.” I remember my mind telling me, enjoy this view as I leave my comfort zone and head back to Lee Arrendale where the nightmare started. But what I can say is that Sgt. Strange made this process less dehumanizing. She spoke to us with respect and called us by our names, not “Inmate So- and- So”. Sgt. Strange lessened the terror and fear for those of us being incarcerated.
Just writing this brings a wave of emotions and tears. Post Incarceration Syndrome (PICS) is real. I live with the sounds in my mind, the weights of the shackles on my ankles and waist every single day. Some days are good and some days are horrible. It all depends on the sounds of the day, the pressure of life, and that monthly call that brings all of these emotions flooding back as I check in with my PO.
Sure, Americans, especially, seem to want to make sure prison is as harsh an experience as imaginable. But most people, regardless of their conviction, come back home to communities, jobs, malls, theatres, and grocery stores. Too many of them carry the baggage of useless trauma, getting in the way of everything productive they'll try to sustain for the rest of their lives. We all - all of society - have those like Sgt. Strange to thank for disrupting the absurdities that keep the chaos in ineffective corrections systems. She disrupted the trauma because she could. #PICS #MENTALHEALTH #TRAUMA