Words, filtered through a couple weeks of low-intensity trauma:
Tuesday night/Wednesday morning, I awoke at 3:45, disoriented, pulling earplugs out of my ears. Dazed, I staggered to the door. Warden Jay Lowdown was there, speaking. “Words words words, something something words.” When I said, “Huh?,” he repeated:
“Today you’re being transferred to the Southern Ohio Correctional Facility in Lucasville.”
Me: “Uh, why am I being selectively punished?”
“You’re not,” answered Jay Lowdown. He looked a lot taller in his pictures. I also noticed he had the beginnings of a moustache. I remember thinking he needed to quit it. “You’re going from one Level 4 institution to another one.”
Me: “Yeah. Okay. But it still sucks. And it feels pretty selective.”
“We thought you might say that,” Jay replied. “That’s why 37 others are going with you.”
Behind him, I saw deputy wardens, unit staff, and Special Response Teams (SRTs). The SRTs wear black fatigues and hats, paramilitary style. They are also sometimes called STAR, “Special Tactical something Response.” I think the “A” stands for “Asshole.” They typically prefer STAR to SRT, because it feels more glamorous when they have STAR on their hats. They go shopping or walk into bars or wait for pedicures at their favorite beauty shops and their hats announce them as STARs.
A couple of them came to my cell and within moments, everything I owned was crammed in boxes, the last time I would ever see half of my property. Within minutes, I was standing in my cell with a half a roll of toilet paper and a lot of empty space. The STAR assholes moved on to the next cell like a biblical swarm of locusts dispatched by a loving, murderous god. I stood there, confused.
I was going to Lucasville. Continue reading