No one was showing their hand, but I sensed the danger really fast. In prison, I didn’t have to try to figure out who the predators were: because of their cases, activities, and criminal history, everyone in a cell was deemed unfit for gen pop. I was already at a disadvantage.Įveryone knew what I looked like coming in, but I didn’t know who they were. I moved my way past the cells and saw the shadow of a face in every window slit. Normally, you associate quiet with tranquility, but this wasn’t that. As someone whose senses are heightened in chaos and crisis, who came up in the constant commotion of the projects, I was thrown off. Everyone at the reception center was quiet, taking in the seriousness of their situation. I was confused-I saw people with more time than me in those dorms-and it made me scared, panicky, and claustrophobic as I looked around my cellblock and saw all those gates, cages, and barbed wire with signs showing images of people being electrocuted.įrom the moment I got off the bus, the contrast to County became real. This is where I first found out I wasn’t going to be in dorms with the rest, that I was going to be housed in a cell. They ask if you’re in a gang, make you see the psychiatrist and get a TB shot, and make sure you’ve got a clean bill of health before they put you in with the general population. Processing at the reception center is more or less the same as at County, but faster: they know you’re coming, so they’ve got a bed for you. Everything arriving into Long Beach by boat comes through the port, where it’s kept on the docks until they figure out its destination and what truck to load it on to take it there. Reception centers are essentially shipping ports for prisoners. The whole rest of the long-ass ride to the state reception center, I was dead quiet, which I figured was better than dead.Ī lot of people don’t know about reception centers, the stop between County and prison. They pulled the bus over to the side of the road, took me off, and made it very clear to me that they would make it seem like I was resisting and leave my ass right there, and they weren’t talking about alive. So, on the bus, when they told us to be quiet, I got loud. I was scared but trying to be tough, and when I get that fight-or-flight feeling, my instinct is naturally to fight. They don’t need to yell they’ve got control of you in other ways. Unlike the sheriffs running the jails, the prison guards deal with you with a little more respect-their tone isn’t as aggressive, and they are willing to communicate directly with you-which, in a sense, is their way of asserting even more authority. While everyone else is sleeping, they pop your door, grab you, cuff you up, and walk your ass to a bus. They come in the middle of the night, wearing all black. When the state comes for you, it’s like a kidnapping.
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