Confession #7: I have become claustrophobic.

Clinically speaking.

In Mexico at dinner last week, I excused myself from the table and inquired with a young, smiley waiter about how one would find los baños.

Attentive and kind, he eagerly offered to walk me, personally, to the start of a paver-lined path where he then pointed and nodded and smiled more, giving me a general direction in which to keep walking.

Los baños were further than I had anticipated.

The music trailed off behind me. The path became denser around each curve, framed in by blue-grey agave plants reaching upward like giant Edward Scissorhands. There were desert ferns and spikey plants and gnarly, bent cacti in shapes that I had never seen. I felt like Alice in a Desert Wonderland— walking into an unexpected jungle of variegated and thorny foliage; tall fan palms leaning in overhead, a canopy of yellow-greens that obscured the sky.

The stone path split at a narrowing set of concrete stairs which led downward into a bunker-like structure hidden beneath a jungle of creeping fig— Los baños! I gripped the railing and then looked back. I could no longer see other people.

I stepped down, down, and down and then made a right at the Senoritas sign. It was markedly darker inside. The music was echoing from somewhere now deep in the distance. No other women were here; I was alone. My brain: every horror movie begins in an idyllic place just like this.

I did my business quickly and as I turned to exit the stall, the sliding latch on the wooden door would not budge. I tried again. Nope. I tried with both hands. I wiggled it up and down, accidentally sliding the latch tighter into its locked position. I pulled at the top of the door to relieve tension. Still no.

In that moment, all rational thought ceased.

I would kick, crawl, or climb if I had to— could anyone hear me screaming if it came to that? How long would it take before another woman would come along? Were there men on the opposite side of the thick concrete wall? Was someone watching me? Was this all part of a plot to abduct innocent women? Why was the bathroom so far from the tables?

Willing now to bloody my fingers to escape, I began to wrench repeatedly against the stuck lock. It hurt, but I was relentless— and I freed myself.

I washed my hands quickly, did not dry them, and walked briskly back down the path to the table, completely missing the wonder of the foliage this time. Not a single soul in the dining area was aware that I had just fought for my life.

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Whether it be age or illness or past bad experiences, I have evolved a visceral (perhaps phobic) response to being trapped in a space which I can not escape. I wasn’t always this way but now…

I take the stairs.

I can’t do tunnels.

I don’t do crowds.

I will avoid being confined at all costs—

excepting one place in the world.

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When the DOC finally approved my snail-mailed visitation application (after 8 weeks of processing), eager does not describe the rushing feeling I felt walking toward those prison doors.

But, not so fast.

Before I even got to the doors from the parking lot for that first visit, my heart in my throat, I was turned back by the large red signs posted: NO CELL PHONES ALLOWED INSIDE THE BUILDINGS!

I would return to my car 2 more times to comply with other rules, dropping off or picking up various required or prohibited items.

After I fumbled my way beyond the gate-keepers and vending machines and bathroom horrors (there was poop on the wall) as well as my first full body search— Face me, turn around; I'm going inside your waistband; socks off; lift your feet, open your mouth, lift your tongue. How many pieces of jewelry? — I stood in a single-file line, inching forward to be led through two more locked doors with my visitor group.

I was told what chair to sit in.

I sat.

Then I heard them call his last name. He emerged from a hallway, through another locked door where he turned and raised his arms to be patted down. He knew the drill, very well.

I watched him until he saw me, and then he smiled, transcending the space. I thought for sure I would embarrass us both by crying, but in that moment, I was too nerved up. It had taken me a half an hour to get through DOC visiting room security, and I had just watched other people get turned away for having holes in their jeans.

I was also too happy to cry— there was my boy, my son, in the flesh.

You only get one hug when you arrive, and another one when you leave. Reaching up to embrace him then felt like every birthday and Christmas of my life rolled into one moment. It broke me and yet, it made me whole.

We sat across from each other and nervously made small talk, not knowing where to begin.

You look good.

You too.

You doing okay?

Yeah, you know.

It took forever to get in here.

It takes forever for everything in here.

It wasn’t until about an hour into the 2-hour visit that I realized how many doors were between me and the parking lot. I had been so concerned about getting in that I never thought about getting out. My mind started playing games— what if there is a lockdown or someone pops off? What if I needed to leave quickly and can't? Can they hold me here? How long?

During this and subsequent visits, the depth of my maternal resolve was tested— I remember thinking at one point, “You have always said that you would do anything for your children.” Well, ma’am, prove it.

One time I was visiting during a wind storm that killed the power.

Another time at another prison, I had been sat in a windowless, cinderblock room with thick glass between my son and I (called a non-contact visit). When our visit was over, they did not come to get me. At first I was thankful for the extra time but as the clock ticked on and we both needed the bathroom, I realized that we had been forgotten. I knocked on the outer door to get attention. A CO appeared and then snapped at me, walking by— we will get to you when we can. My heart started pounding; I was locked in a prison and the staff could care less that I might piss my pants.

I looked at my son, who was also waiting in a space so small that it was impossible for him to turn his body around. I said, “I don’t know how you do this every day.”

He just shook his head.

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On Tuesday, we left Mexico. I would not disclose it if it was not poignantly relevant to this tale, but I had, unfortunately, contracted a bit of Montezuma’s revenge. 8 hours of airport screening, customs, tarmac walking, and flying would push me to the brink of ‘normal’ tolerance but my situation worsened inside the plane.

Upon reaching my seat in Row 15, I saw that the size of the man already seated there was 3x my husband's— and my husband is not a small man. I would be sat in a middle seat between the two of them for an international flight. Also, our row had no window. Also, as mentioned, I had diarrhea. Also, the large man had a chronic cough.

Dear God, make me a bird.

Fifteen minutes into the flight, the woman in front of me reclined her seat all the way, and I was left with about 1 square foot of breathable, movable space. And so, claustrophobia began to squeeze; a python wrapped around my limbs. My heart rate soared so high that my watch recorded a 2.5 hour workout. My brain, again, switched into survival mode—

I cannot get off, I cannot leave, I cannot find a new seat (the flight was fully booked). I cannot get to the bathroom without asking Andre the Giant to please move. I commenced the 4-7-8 breathing, box-breathing, alternative-nostril breathing. I did it all. And then, in a single flash of clarity, I thought of my son.

He has sat for days and weeks and months and years in a place that will not allow him to move freely nor leave. He gets permission to use the bathroom, he gets limited permission to go outside. He has no privacy, no personal space, no fresh air. He is, at any given time of his day, locked behind a series of 10 mechanized doors and 12 foot razor wire fences.

In some odd offering of cosmic assistance, his continued strength to Keep Calm and Carry On pulled me through my own strangling panic.

If he can do 23 hours a day in a small cell with a complete stranger for years on end— I can make it through returning from a vacation for God’s Sake.

My thoughts returned to the various conditions of his confinement over and over during those 4+ hours. I credit him that I made it home without an emergency landing to remove a screaming, thrashing me from the plane. Mucho gracias.

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As outlined in previous Confessions, during his few years of incarceration my son has spent over 9 months in LOP and over 100 days in solitary confinement.

Talk about claustrophobia.

Affectionately known by the department as Punishment Segregation or Ad Seg (i.e., Administrative Segregation), this practice is used to move prisoners who have been deemed a threat (or who have, themselves, been threatened) from Gen Pop to a 7x11 cell for 23 hours per day where they exist with virtually no human contact. Other realities of solitary:

• No daily showers (allowed only 3 per week)

• No regular visits

• No yard time (1 hour per day, five days a week in a caged “yard”)

• No programming, jobs, nor religious services

• No commissary

• No electronics (e.g., tv, radio)

• No property nor books (you are only allowed a bible and legal papers)

• Mail is extremely limited and highly scrutinized

• Phone calls are limited to 15 minutes, one morning per week

You also receive limited medical checks, limited access to mental health care, and all of your movements are handcuffed (you are shackled to go to the shower, etc.) while in solitary.

You can end up in solitary for many reasons— For ‘protection’ or during an official investigation. My son ended up in solitary for a Covid exposure. He also went there after he was attacked by another inmate and while a guard was being inappropriate.

In spite of State claims, Solitary Confinement is used often.

Way too often.

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11 days ago prison guards walked off their jobs in New York, without the nod from their union. They claim working conditions are unsafe, and I'm sure they are.

But the timing of this walk-out is curious. They are raising a fuss to demand a repeal of The HALT Act (2022) which placed limitations on isolation and solitary confinement practices in NY state prisons.

Oh, and there's a pesky little PR situation wherein 6 New York corrections officers were recently charged with murdering a handcuffed man in a closed medical unit— they appeared in court 3 days before the walk-out began.

Robert Brooks was kicked and punched until he died at the Marcy Correctional Facility in December 2024. An investigation by the state revealed that Mr. Brooks was in a medical check when officers attacked him, without provocation. If you can’t watch it here, then you can’t offer an opinion.

Yeah, he was a prisoner. Yeah, he committed a crime for which he was serving his punishment. And yeah, these officers did what so many do— abused another human being in chains and confinement to death. How fucking cliché.

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While serving his time, my son had a member of DOC staff repeatedly come to his cell and request that he, my quarantined son, “suck his dick.” It happened so many times that my son filed what is known as a PREA grievance (Prison Rape Elimination Act) against the guard.

During that investigation, my son was placed in solitary confinement “for his safety.” His treatment during this stay was particularly harsh, and curiously, he received his first 4 misconduct tickets during the course of this ‘investigation’— for items found in his solitary cell (i.e., a tray and apple juice), which staff brought to him and which he was unable to remove without their assistance.

DOC policy specifically outlines that “retaliation [by staff] is prohibited” following a PREA claim, but we know better. It is like a kindergarten class at the DOC, and bullies will always do bully shit.

Misconduct tickets suddenly spring up like dandelions. Medical care becomes increasingly delayed. Phone calls and visits are denied. Documentation from lawsuits has even shown that guards will use other inmates to do their dirty work, while they [oopsies] turn away. For incarcerated people the message is clear: bad actors in DOC shall not be reported on without repercussion.

But don’t take my word for it.

Read just a few of the case law offerings on the interwebs: Crawford v. Jackson (California, 2016); Dwayne Edmund Wilson v. Unknown Olson, et al. (Michigan, 2022); Caldwell v. Miller (Illinois, 2016); Johnson v. Eggers (Ohio, 2018); Doe v. Catoe (South Carolina, 2020); Foster v. Ricks (Arizona, 2020); or Read Here. In 2020, Michigan paid $80 Million in damages after 12 John Doe inmates brought a case against guards for, among other things, confirmed sexual abuse.

That $80 Million was paid by the money taken from YOUR paycheck every week. You know, the money we assume is “fixing the roads” and providing us services and other things supplied by the State— in this case you paid for anal rape to be enjoyed by prison employees.

Maybe budgeting makes it easier to swallow: “The $80 million was to be paid in three installments: $25 million within two business days of the settlement’s effective date, another $15 million on October 15, 2020, and the final installment of $25 million due on October 15, 2021,” according to Prison Legal News.

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When you ask for protection in prison, you get solitary. When you have a medical or mental emergency, you get solitary. When you defend yourself, you get solitary. When a guard acts badly, you get solitary. And when you get solitary, you are— by definition, being harmed. Nevermind the terrifying human experience of being completely isolated, imagine people watching you die in that small, locked space and doing nothing.

A friend of mine lost her brother while he was in isolation in prison. March 11th marks 6 years since his unnecessary death.

Say his name: Jonathan Lancaster.

From the Justice for Johnny website: “In 2019, Jonathan Lancaster, a 38-year-old father, son and brother, died of dehydration while strapped to a restraint chair in a solitary cell in Alger Correctional Facility in Michigan. While in solitary, his mental health deteriorated, causing visual and auditory delusions, insomnia, and paranoia that he was being poisoned. Rather than receiving treatment, he was restrained, pepper-sprayed, and had his water shut off. Despite repeated calls from his family begging for him to receive help, Jon lost 50 pounds in the two weeks leading up to his death, ultimately dying of dehydration.”

8 prison officials (4 of them DOC nurses) were charged with his death but a feckless judge threw out the charges last year saying that dehydration, not the people causing the dehydration, had resulted in his untimely death.

MAKE IT MAKE SENSE, please.

In the new documentary The Strike (available for free on YouTube), the stories of dozens of California prisoners’ struggle through decades-long solitary confinement stays are poignantly outlined. Not days, not weeks— 31 years in isolation for one of the men. 28 for another.

And no, they were not ax murderers in Silence of The Lambs masks. These are thoughtful human beings with families who regretted the mistakes they made in their youthful ignorance.

America needs legislation like HALT— which stands for The Humane Alternatives to Solitary Confinement Act because the pervasively punitive culture of American “corrections” blithely ignores the data from decades of good research that says solitary does not improve corrections outcomes. The DOC, at large, willfully continues to deny common human decency on a daily basis in nearly every corner of this country.

Full Stop.

NY's HALT legislation doesn’t even go that far. It merely limits solitary confinement to 15 days, after which individuals are closely evaluated and transferred to more appropriate placement for their circumstance (i.e., treatment for mental illness, medical attention, or rehab). It also bans the use of solitary for pregnant women, for anyone with a disability, and for anyone under the age of 22 or over the age of 54.

Corrections officers don't like these guidelines. We are obligated to ask why.

I submit that they are in their feelings and they just don't like being told how to behave.

Cue the Alanis: A little too ironic, don’t cha think?

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Update: This morning, the governor of NY (Kathy Hochul) “reached a tentative deal" with the striking corrections workers by kowtowing and suspending HALT. They're back in business at DOCCS— with raises in pay.

Breathe easy, fellow citizens, we’re weaponizing solitary confinement with renewed fervor and people are clapping. Just when I thought I might be able to stomach a horrible seat on an airplane, I am about to lose my lunch over today’s news.