The
gravel shoots out from under the tires of my ’97 Pathfinder as I wind my way
toward the entrance of Hillsborough Correctional Institution. I am only forty
minutes from home, but the churning in my stomach tells me I’m a lot further
than that.
I
have never been to a prison, as an inmate or to visit. I’ve never even been to
the county jail. “You’ll be fine,” my friend Minnette tells me that morning. She
teaches art teacher here and is the one who convinced me to do a creative
writing class. “There are a lot of women looking forward to it. It will be
amazing. You’ll see.”
I
don’t have her confidence as I park and head toward the guard house sitting in
front of the barbed wire. Inside, it is stark – naked white walls streaked with
dirt, a gray linoleum floor and a metal desk behind which sits a uniformed
corrections officer (CO). A security scanner stands in front of a steel door on
the other side of the room.
The
officer checks my name on his list. “Empty your pockets and put your keys and
cell phone in this bin,” he instructs. He holds out his hand for my briefcase. I
reluctantly turn it over. While he paws through my bag, I walk through the
scanner and am relieved when the alarm doesn’t sound. He meets me on the other
side. “You’ll get your phone and keys back when you leave,” he says.
A
loud buzz fills the empty room, and he points to the door. I enter another room
devoid of personality. “Just keep walking,” he calls as the door slams. I do as
I’m told and go through another door to find myself on the path that leads to
the entrance of a large brick building.
My
heart races.
I
open the doors to find what resembles the lobby of a school – freshly waxed
floors, unchipped paint, florescent lights. Except that on the walls are photos
of every warden who’s ever helmed this prison. Some men. Some women. All in
uniforms and caps. No smiles. Just stern eyes staring into the void.
“Can
I help you?” An older woman in a skirt and white blouse asks. I explain why I am
here, and she ushers me into the visiting room. “The warden will be with you in
a few minutes,” she says.
It’s
a large open area and the dingy carpet is frayed at the baseboards. On one wall
there is an empty chalkboard and beneath it several milk crates filled with old
toys and stuffed animals. Children’s artwork is strung with twine across two of
the walls. Pictures of bright suns, flowers, stick figures, and giant hearts sit
above crayon messages.
I
love you Mommy.
Miss
you.
When
are you coming home?
There
are a dozen small plastic tables and cheap chairs scattered throughout and
several pay phones are attached to the wall in the far corner. “I’m Melissa,
Warden Butler’s secretary,” announces a tall woman with glasses as she comes
through the door. “Warden got tied up on a call and asked me to show you to your
classroom.”
I
follow her through the building and out the back door.