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Hospitality to the Imprisoned ˜ 135
cer yells and curses at you to hurry up. The chains restrict your movements. This
leaves you feeling put out and frustrated.
On the bus or van trip to prison, the atmosphere is filled with quiet trepidation.
No one really knows what to expect. Horror stories have been passed
around, and fear creeps into your heart. You hope and pray that none of these
situations will befall you, and you wonder how you will react if they do.
Arriving at the prison, you see a fortresslike structure. You notice the high
fences and the abundance of barbed wire and razor wire. You also notice the
evenly spaced guard towers and the guns. Your mind and heart probe the prison
for some hint as to what is about to happen to you. Your eyes linger on the men
already confined, whom you see either on the yard or performing some unknown
tasks. Your heart sinks as the gates close behind the bus, and you wonder
how you will fare.
As you get off the bus, the chains and cuffs are removed. You are told to take
what possessions you have managed to hang onto and to stand in a line. Moments
later, a prison guard with a clipboard comes by, calling out names. Most
names are mispronounced. If your name is garbled or mispronounced and you
do not answer, the guard yells and curses until you finally overcome your bafflement
and reply. People whose names have been called are instructed to line
up next to a door. What lies behind the door seems forbidding. After the line
forms, an ominous jingling of keys announces the opening of the door.
Several guards step out and start screaming at the people in line. These
guards start haranguing the men to enter the building, to keep against the wall,
to keep their mouths shut and their eyes straight ahead. As you walk down the
hallway, your spirits plummet. In noticing the prisoners already confined, one
observation stands out. Most people avoid eye contact and keep their heads lowered
abjectly. Whether through humiliation or a broken spirit, their dull gazes
stay focused elsewhere. With quiet resolve, you shore up your spirits and wonder
what has reduced these men to this state.
Walking down the hallway, the line of men turns and enters the ID room.
The new arrivals are instructed to sit on a row of benches and to keep quiet. You
do so, observing all that is transpiring, hoping to glean some information that
will ease the situation. The guard who escorted you into the prison hands his
clipboard to another prison guard. A few of the new arrivals sit beside you and
begin a quiet conversation. Suddenly, an explosion of profanity erupts as the two
conversationalists are berated for opening their lousy mouths. With a profusion
of expletives, the guard admonishes and browbeats, telling all to remain silent
unless spoken to by a guard.
After an interminable period, more hapless men file into the ID room. They
take their seats on one of the rows of wooden benches. In time, all the available
bench space is filled, and men start finding places on the floor. When fifty or