Swamp Swinger in the Slammer

by Lynne Purvis

30 days in jail is a relatively short sentence, both by criminal standards and activist standards.  Still, it was the first time anyone in my local community had ever been sentenced to jail, and it affected all of us a little bit. So, without being full of myself or taking away from the gravity of the long sentences many heroic activists have taken, I would still like to share my experience & perspective on my short jail stay.
 
On February 18th, 2008, in the culmination of a year and a half long campaign, I found myself lying on the ground, my clothes soaked in my own piss, my arms chained to nine others around me, german shepherds barking ferociously all around me, over a 100 people screaming nearby, cops aiming "less lethal" rifles at me - and i was feeling GREAT! On February 2nd, 2009, in a much calmer environment, wearing pantyhose and loafers, I stood in front of the judge, my heart pounding so hard the pulse in my ear eclipsed my hearing - I was feeling a little less great as the proverbial gavel struck the block to the tune of "30 days in the county jail."

Such was the face of civil disobedience in Palm Beach County, Florida. Can't say I regret any of it.

For over a year, Everglades Earth First! had been fighting against the West County Energy Center, a power plant being proposed, then constructed, in the northern tip of the Everglades.  I say "a power plant" but really I mean, the largest fossil fuel power plant in the whole nation, stationed a mere 40 miles from the second largest fossil fuel power plant in the nation.  Yes, it was natural gas, not coal or oil, so isn't that the best we can expect? (At least that's what the other environmental groups were telling us?) Well, no, um, ever heard of renewable energy? If you ignore the carbon dioxide, the mercury, and other dangerous emissions, can you also overlook the daily wastewater injections deep into the fragile Floridan aquifer, the 12 million gallons of "backup" diesel stored on-site, with permission to burn 500 hours a year per generator (and that number keeps growing!), and the billions of gallons of daily water consumption making it the largest water consumer in this entire drought-stricken, permanent water restriction county, all taking place literally across the street from one the Everglades' national wildlife refuges in the area slated for "Everglades Restoration"? 

Clearly, I couldn't ignore all this, and when months of letters, public hearings, meetings with officials, and street protests failed to still the swing of the hammers (or pounding of the pile driver in this case), me and a hundred of my closest friends decided to have a go at putting our bodies in the path of destruction and see if that slowed them down.  The site managers didn't seem to like it, nor did the cops.  Can't say I really expected them to show up and lend a hand to the cause, but our logic was, "hey that badge on your chest says you're employed to serve and protect, help us protect the community from this power plant?" Needless to say the only hand they lent was the one that, after we had successfully blockaded the site for 6 hours creating a major spectacle, cut open our lockboxes and literally dragged 25 of our asses to the paddywagon.  We felt triumphant.

Jail was a hoot, then cold and boring.  The first few hours was marked by the reign of Hamarchy, as evidenced by the bologna slices formed into circle A's and stuck to the windows.  The boys mounted a naked protest that I didn't understand at the time (and to which I later heard one of the funniest things in my life: one naked protester was taken in to a room of cops to have his photo taken, and the cops said "you must feel pretty intimidated to be here naked surrounded by all us cops," and he replied "are you kidding, this is my biggest fantasy!").  We were doing jail solidarity and refusing to give our names, but as I sat in the cell and watched the cops watching the news report, and saw myself and my friend giving interviews with our names brightly displayed underneath us, I hung my head at the ridiculousness of it all.  Anyways, we got transferred, and people eventually agreed to give their names, and after some more cold hours, I was one of the first to get released and got to return to the beautiful chaos of the jail support house
Over the next year, the county courthouse became our second meetinghouse.  I'll spare you the details of the courthouse shuffle.  Just know that several people would fly in from out of state only to find their case rescheduled, my assigned public defender changed at least 4 times, and we even shifted judges a bunch. The state prosecutor, after accidentally letting one person slip off the hook, did not relent from her position of wanting, for all defendants, probation, a no contact with FPL order, and, most objectionably, over $100,000 in restitution to the SHERIFF'S OFFICE for the joy of arresting us. I'd never heard of such a thing!  A few people took plea deals or broke off from the group, but most everyone strategized together and went into small group trials (the judges thought that over 20 of us in a single trial would be a "circus" - maybe he'd been warned about Hamarchy.

Our game plan was this: to use a little known legal defense called necessity, which meant that we admitted to the "crimes" as charged but argued that we did them out of legally condoned necessity to prevent major harm to another person, or in this case, the whole community. This defense was recently used successfully in the UK in an extremely similar circumstance, and we hoped to pave the way for its use in the US.  In three separate group trials, we brought in experts on hydrology and climate change, spoke of the dangers of the plant, and defended the use of civil disobedience for necessary social or environmental change. In each trial we pinned our hopes on the hearts of regular people to look past minor infractions of corporate-controlled law (as they were legally allowed to do under the necessity defense) and applaud the effort of those committed enough to risk their freedom for the greater good.  A chorus of "guilty"'s deflated those hopes.

(Now the official activist thing to do is to turn around any perceivable loss as a victory cause hell, we fight hard and we need to believe we are winning in order to keep going. Yes, we did get our message out to the public in a major way, really bond as a group, and hopefully inspire countless of people to stand up to the powers that be, but I hate heartless rhetoric that ignores glaring realities.  We didn't just officially lose one trial, we lost three. I personally am not disheartened by that, because my motivation comes from elsewhere. I have long taken on the strategy of not fighting because I truly believe we can win, I fight because I need to follow my heart and enjoy doing so in wild ways with like-minded company, regardless of the outcome.  It's not that I don't truly care about the issue, but I know that the fight is much longer than my lifetime, and doing my part is all I can do.)

Where was I.  Oh yeah, the guilty's. My group's trial took place in December and was itself an exciting event. You know, TV is filled with cops and courts, and now was my chance to take the stand and all that.  Anyways, after 4 days of impassioned arguments and testimony, we did get a guilty verdict.  The alternate juror, who sits through the whole thing just in case some other juror gets sick or whatever, but otherwise gets sent home before deliberations, talked to some of our group to say that he was with us wholeheartedly and would have fought "tooth and nail" for a not guilty verdict.  We believe that the jurors didn't fully understand that the necessity defense supersedes commission of the "crimes."
We didn't get sentenced immediately, because the prosecutor, fighting for the restitution which she had lost twice now, wanted to mount a sentencing hearing that the judge didn't want to sit through at that moment.  So they scheduled a sentencing date which was convenient for all involved.  I mean that literally - they held off the sentencing to accommodate my month-long trip to Guatemala, which seems like a rare show of compassion and humanity in the monstrous bureaucracies which rule our government.

Which finally brings me to February 2nd, 2009. That morning my girlfriend casually kissed me goodbye and said she'd see me later and to call her after the afternoon sentencing hearing.  I hung out some laundry to dry and ate some salad. I rode my bike to the courthouse, bringing with me some handmade wine glasses I had lugged all across Guatemala, and was going to deliver to its recipient on my was home from the courthouse that evening. Now, the prosecutor had stated during the end of the trial that she was seeking jail time for two of us, and speculation easily landed on me and my friend Panagioti. Most everyone thought it was ridiculous and would never happen, but I, myself, never wrote it off as a real possibility, and it certainly loomed in my mind.  This however, didn't translate into me doing anything to properly prepare for that possibility. Such as investigate jail-acceptable warm clothing or catch a ride to the courthouse.

The sentencing hearing moved swiftly along, and we were offered the opportunity to speak to the judge before each of our sentences were decided (or announced, as it seems likely they were probably predetermined). Panagioti, for better or for worse, went first, and gave a long impassioned speech about civil disobedience, urging the judge to use this opportunity to support the efforts of social change activists everywhere, and pledging to continue on with similar actions at every moment necessary, including Powershift's March 2nd direct action. At this point, the judge was given her first ever opportunity to weigh in with her own opinions, and really let loose her rage in a string of reprimands that ended with the proclamation "60 days in the county jail."  This was, incidentally, twice what the state attorney (who has seemingly spent her entire year plotting our doom, yet only requested 30 days jail) recommended.  For a moment no one really understood, but then as the bailiff stepped up to handcuff him, some boos rang out through the crowd and that pulse of mine which I mentioned earlier starting ringing out through my ears. She called my name next, and I was quickly reevaluating what my approach would be.  Speaking into the mic, for a moment I was so nervous I couldn't get any words out. Then I made a quiet plea for her to understand that we did what we did out of earnest concern for the community, and I listed all my other volunteer work, stating that jail time would not benefit anyone in any way but in fact take away from the community, that I was willing to do any number of community service hours and could she please honor our intentions. 
Well, you already know how that ended up. I (sometimes) come from that "higher moral ground" school of breaking the law and accepting the consequences, be they just or not. So as soon as I got cuffed, I immediately began to accept my fate and figure out how to make this fun and worthwhile. I tried to soak up the few moments with Panagioti joking and talking about how we would spend our time.  Thoughts of getting superbuff and writing all those great letters and essays sprung up. 

We got transported by some private prisoner transport company (whose vans had that full color wrapping stuff proudly displaying a cop and an employee behind a miserable looking, cuffed inmate, and I found it very curious that anyone would be proudly advertising that's what they do for a living.).  Then came those trying hours in the freezing holding cells where people are freaking out because they're cold, in jail, and often, starting to come down off some drugs. The damage of our cell phone culture revealed themselves again as few of my fellow inmates could A) remember anyone's phone number and B) few of them even knew anyone with a landline, and you can't usually call cell phones.  Thankfully, we have a strong jail support crew (and landlines) at home, and I began making calls for other inmates by asking someone at home to use their cell phone to call the inmate's desired number, and put up the phones together and let them talk.  Over the course of my time, the content of these calls ranged from detoxing women screaming angrily at unmoved boyfriends to come bail them out, to lovers who hadn't spoken to each other in 2 months (my friend reported the amusing situation of two unmanned phones delightedly screaming "baby" back and forth to each other), to a woman speaking in Mixteca about her impending deportation, to a mother trying to arrange her son's scholarship affairs from inside.  All though it got personally annoying for me sometimes, as people would hound me all day about making calls which were costing us something like $6 a pop, I felt it was a small way that our movement could help a few of the countless good people locked up for stupid reasons.  I never for a moment lost sight of the fact that I had a huge support team behind me for such a relatively short sentence, and most people do not.

Back to booking.  At some point after midnight I was taken to the showers, which served the dual purpose of cleaning me up and allowing the guards to check me for open sores and contraband.  The warm water was delightful, as was the relief that I would soon be given a bed and a blanket.  I did indeed make it "upstairs" and was brought into a small cell, startling the one sleeping  inhabitant.  Happy to finally be past the ordeal of booking, which is most certainly the worst part, I slipped under the covers, and finally warm, I fell into sleep.  For a couple hours.  Then breakfast.  At 4:30am.  I'm not kidding you.  I had been hungry, nothing since a salad at 11am the day before, so I was thankful.  The tray contained my first of many servings of what can only be called meat slop - some unidentifiable meat swimming in a gelatinous gravy.  Today it came with scalloped potatoes (a Tuesday morning special I later learned was called "Shit on a Shingle" or "SOS."), but in the coming weeks it would accompany rice, pasta, and bread.  Hmmm....meat slop...a vegetarian's favorite.  Now, I'm not usually a food snob, but as I drank the factory farmed milk, I really couldn't get the thought of bovine growth hormone and pus filled tumors out of my mind, and was sure that's what was making it taste different than organic milk.  Well, whatever, down the hatch!  And back to bed.

The rest of the day was pretty boring.  We were in pods I guess, where we could leave our cells during the day and hang out in a TV room and a dayroom.  This was all just a temporary housing area - women were shipped off to another jail called the stockade, so there wasn't much going on in terms of ways to entertain yourself.  I tried to sleep a lot, do some yoga, watch a couple of movies (including 9 to 5, hello Dolly!) and I managed to fish a couple magazines out of the trash.  Glamour and Good Housekeeping, and read every bit. Stared at the all the ads, even reading the fine print on the medical ones. The other inmates were pretty subdued, i.e. sleeping or off at court, most of the day, so it wasn't until evening that I got my first sampling of the horror of jail acoustics.  Bare concrete walls, floors, and ceilings combined with loud ladies made such incredible echoes that, if more than one person were speaking at a time in the room, I could not understand what people were saying even if they were sitting next to me. So much for getting clued in on all the street gossip.

Around 9pm, we finally got called to go to the Stockade.  We were shackled and brought out to a van.  Now, if people worked together, keeping their cuffed arm in the center aisle, everyone could sit on the benches.  My shackle partner, however, wasn't very considerate, using her hand as if I wasn't hooked onto it, so I opted to just sit on the floor in the aisle.  We hadn't been locked up for too long, but still we were excited to see the outside, angling ourselves to catch a view from the front windows.  As we turned into the stockade, the telltale razor wire spirals lined the fence to the our right, but on the left were the neon lights of ferris wheels and yo-yo swings.  It was the last weekend of the humongous county fair, and we lamented making a left turn instead of a right.
Once inside, we went through the ordeal of another medical exam, grabbed our woolly bedrolls, and were then brought to our new home: L Dorm.  I had been on edge the whole time, wanting to hurry up and see what things were going to be like for my next 3+ weeks, and here I was.  It looked like a homeless shelter: 48 beds laid out in four rows in a barren concrete room, women wandering around, everything much louder than you could ever think you could live with.  People stopped to give us the new-girl-once-over, then continued on.  Not knowing what else to do, I went and chose the first bed I saw and starting laying out my sheets. 

"Ooh, I like that hair color," someone said as they were fingering my hair.  It was really faded out, in a way that makes me feel ugly, but hey if even the remnants of color would get me props in jail, I was happy.

"Hey, are you that protester?" someone else shouted from a few beds away. "You're in the paper today!"  Again, a little puff of ego shot up.  I asked to see the paper, was told it was kept in the dayroom, and decided to finish settling in first. Before long, another neighbor spoke up.

"Oohwee, I smell body odor. Someone really needs to take a bath." I looked over at her, and said, "It might be, I don't know." I whiffed my armpits, but nothing. She made a face and then tried to discreetly ask me if it was my other neighbor, who had come in at the same time as me.  I shrugged, cause really, I didn't smell anything, and really, I didn't care.

There were so many things I wanted to know about how life operated here, and my one neighbor, JJ, though she thought either I or my other neighbor seemed friendly enough, so I started to spout off questions.  How do I get books, sweatshirts, when was canteen day, how do I get hair ties, when do you shower.  When I had gotten as much information as I thought polite to demand in a short time, I headed towards the dayroom to find that article, but again I was intercepted.

"Take these and use them, before someone tells you something mean."  I looked down as she was pressing shampoo and deodorant into my hands. I flashed back to all the times my crew had gotten kicked out of lesbian clubs for 'stinking too bad", or being nonconsentually sprayed with deodorant as I walked down the aisle of the Tri-Rail commuter train, or the news article about the new burlesque troop in town that found it necessary to comment on the anarchists in the crowd with the " alternative grooming habits" I debated between laughing and being offended, but really I didn't care and I also wanted to appreciate the person who was, in some weird way, being nice to me.  So I just said a sincere thanks, grabbed my towel and headed to the shower.

And thus began my first day in L Dorm. I worry about the narrative getting stale, so I'm going to jump to some of the things I wrote while I was in jail:

February 7th:
     Hello my honeys, hello my darlings, hello my jailtime pals... Howdy!  Spirits are high down here in cell block L.  L for ladies, L for lezzies, L for Lynne.  OK, technically it's not a cell block, it's a dorm, but how do I sound tough in a dorm?  They don't let me do push-ups inside (there goes my jailtime Get-Beefy plan), no one has bullied me out of my lunch tray, and I've only been strip-searched once!  Okay, maybe twice, oh and another one coming after today's visit.  Okay, maybe I like that part!
     Don't worry, there's plenty of jailness going on - ladies with jailhouse tattoos given with staples and pencil lead dissolved into shampoo, a guard's lecture about "too much oral sex at night", people wearing jail-issue underwear as doo-rags, and plenty of times where guards have been ridiculously rude for no reason.  Like when I was called out to sign a form about staph and fees and general rules.  Can't tell you what all it said because the officer refused to let me read it, saying, "I don't have time for you to read it, I told you to sign it!"  I tried to defend my right to read before signing and she snatched the paper away from me and wrote that I refused to sign!  I was steaming, not to mention worried that this would result in some kind of punishment.
     Anyway, I'm in a giant room with 48 beds (think: homeless shelter), plus a toilet/shower room, and then a dayroom for meals, TV, phone, and hanging out at the times when we're not restricted to our beds, which happens after meals, at "count" time, for 2 hours "lockdown" as punishment, and between 11:30pm and 8am.  Meals are at 4:30am!!, 10:30am, and 4:30pm!  So far, I've been cold all the time.  I have to wait until next Wednesday to be able to buy a sweatshirt and socks.  Then maybe life will be different.
     The women here are nice, sharing stuff, helping you get oriented, and staying up late telling stories and jokes.  People trade food in a polite manner - "You gonna eat your crackers?"  "Anyone want more pudding?"  I haven't integrated too much into the social scene, but I chat with my nearby bunkmates and have a couple of recreation time work out pals.  I also talk with the Spanish speakers, most of them waiting to get deported, cause not too many folks speak Spanish.  Racial segregation is not dramatic, bunks are somewhat intermixed and people hang out across lines.  There still is an all black lunch table (but not all the black ladies sit there), and the Spanish-only ladies stick together.  I still have that "oh god, where do i sit?" issue famous from high school drama TV shows.  I'd like to try to move about and meet folks, but am scared to overstep boundaries.
     Another thought I have is that a huge majority of the officers in here are black.  Makes me think of racial disparity in rates of incarceration and why black folk would want to participate in that as jailers.  But also maybe the logic is that if their people gonna be jailed, at least they can be on the inside to take better care.  And all the economic pressures factor in, too.
     As for how I spend my time: I devour whatever books are on the floor, a lot of mysteries and high drama popular novels, stay in bed a lot, either for warmth or by order, go out for recreation when I can (one day we lost it as punishment, today they called it at 8am while we were all sleeping) do yoga and exercise, read the paper everyday, do jumble and cryptogram puzzles, write letters, watch TV (American idol, Simpsons, Family Guy), try to listen to gay gossip (lots of "bulldaggin'" goin on), and plan out my life, again.
     A lot of people snack all day on junk they buy from the weekly canteen, but I don't wanna fall into that, for health, economic, and political reasons - I don't like handing over money to the system that locked me in here.  I'm not judging those who do, because I only have 23-30 days to deal with, but some folks have been in 3+ years, just waiting on trial!  But on a day like today, when it's not even 5pm and I'm out of interesting ideas for the day, the 16 more days ahead of me seem interminable.  I'm hoping that warmer clothes and more interesting books will make things better. 
     Oh, for the EEF! crew who did jail support at Gunclub, waiting for folks to get out on February 19th - there's an inmate here who was getting out that night too and y'all gave her food and lent a sweater while she was waiting for her ride!  She thought y'all were super nice and sends her thanks!

February 10th:
     THANKS FOR ALL YOUR LETTERS!!!  I got 8 in my first two mail days and when I'm bored, I can reread them.  Maybe getting tossed in jail is a blessing in that I get to hear what's going on in your hearts and minds, when otherwise that communication might not have happened.  I will write everyone back at least once - I don't get envelopes/stamps til tomorrow and so far I've only had a two inch pencil to work with!  But life changes tomorrow when the legendary canteen orders arrive!

February 11th:
     Today, a pastor came in to give church service.  I'd been hoping we would go outside our "dorm" for service, but not tonight.  It was nice though, the pastor played us some recorded music, then someone read a quick passage from the Bible.  Then the pastor mainly told us about deaths in her family and we discussed death the whole time.  Then one of the inmates who's always telling crazy stories and dancing got up and sang a couple of beautiful gospel songs.  The last couple of days, starting when we watched the Grammys, I realized how much I rely on music to get me through tough times and how absent it is here.  I do miss it! 
     Today was a hard day.  I don't know why, just got depressed a bit about being in here.  Cried a bit and hovered near tears all day. So many other people in here were so nice to me and kept asking how I was doing, and someone tonight gave me a sweatshirt to wear (which is why I'm able to be out of my bed writing this tonight.)  I guess I appreciate this opportunity to get to know people outside of my normal social circle.  Today, we also had a new guard, who walked in here with such a calm demeanor and sweet voice.  She encouraged us to attend the church service, talked about taking home the list of our names to pray hard for the lord to bless us, gave a speech about people being locked up in their minds even on "the outside." She encouraged us to be kind and uplifting to each other and educate ourselves every day, and then encouraged one of the inmates to get up and read some poetry.  It was a nice change from the tough-guy attitude other guards had, and people responded so well.  A good example of how positive energy grows more positive energy.

I just found out that we were granted an appellate bond, but I am choosing not to leave.  Let me explain why:  My lawyer admits we only have a 25% chance of winning an appeal.  If we do, then we would have to then also win another trial or have another judge not give jailtime.  So yes, there's a chance that I would not have to finish my time, but a greater chance I would, or even possibly get more time.  Then I'd have to come back in, go through the grueling process of booking again and start the adjustment process over.  Right now, I finally got myself set up with warm clothes, writing utensils, books, treats, etc.  Plus all your letters on the way.  I have adjusted to the schedule and started to make friends.  I'd rather do 13 more days now, when my schedule is clear and people are prepared to support me, then have it hanging over my head and possibly have to come back.  That peace of mind is worth maybe feeling stupid later. At least I say that now. :)

With that I leave you, and let my love be with you.
Love,
Lynne

Some of the things that impressed me the most where the way that people in jail are, for the most part, such normal people.  This society promotes this idea that there's good people and then there's "criminals," who by nature are a different kind of person.  I know many of us have re-educated ourselves to understand that this is a lie, but even so, somewhere it lingered in me.  I feared that jail would be full of all these tough, violent women that I would never find any way to connect with.  Oh, I'm sure there are some in there, just like in every neighborhood or business or punk scene, but most people in jail are there for drug charges, and with the pervasiveness of drug use in most social circles, people from all walks of life can find themselves in jail (though of course, its mainly only the poor who get patrolled and arrested).  I think about how casually people I know use and carry drugs, and how one day they could be on their way to a protest or the grocery store, run into a cop, and then spend the next several months or years in jail, fate switching so quickly in just a day.

People were in there mainly for drugs.  There were a few violent charges, some robberies, a bunch of DUI's,and some immigration holds.  Two women were in there for embezzlement and fraud.  They received section 8 housing assistance, then took in elderly family members, who were also receiving some type of government assistance, for a few months while they searched for their own housing.  Failing to report this to the authorities constituted embezzlement and fraud and they were charged criminally as well as expected to pay the money back.  Whoa. Don't know how to even comment on that one.  How many corporate criminals embezzle millions of dollars (think: bailout) for much less honorable reasons and never even see the courtroom?

I tried to pay attention to demographics.  About two-thirds seemed working class or poor, the other third middle class.  There was an almost even distribution of black, latina, and white ladies, but being that the proportions in normal society aren't anywhere as even distributed, that long told statistic of unequal rates of incarceration held true.  I think maybe a fourth of fifth of the women in there were bisexual or gay, which was kinda cool because I often complain of the lack of queer community where I live, and finally I was finding some! People spoke about gayness so openly and casually, like it really didn't even deserve a name, which was surprising refreshing from queer society where you're constantly thinking about it.

As I mentioned earlier, people immediately recognized me from the news article, and that gave me plenty of opening to talk about my case. Most everyone was pretty flabbergasted that I would be jailed for that.  I began to explain about the power plant and why we were against it, and several ladies engaged me in conversations about how people are ruining our lands and overdeveloping.  Even a woman who worked constructing that power plant (but unfortunately, hadn't yet been hired when we blockaded it) supported our protest, but she, of course, had to feed her kids."  I had just finished reading the "Green Collar Economy," which gave lots of practical plans on ideas many of us environmental activists have long held but never really developed successfully. Armed with those thoughts, her and I discussed the different jobs that she could be working if only the massive power companies weren't so profit-hungry.  Within a few days I had been affectionately dubbed "treehugger." Sometimes people would get my attention by shouting "Hey, Greenpeace!"

Although I was lonely, I really took my time with socializing.  It seemed such an intense scene, and I wanted to be careful about how I presented myself. I also wanted to observe the existing landscape for a while and decide even where I wanted to fit it. This is such a departure from my normal behavior of being anxious to make friends and so being loud and showy and often sarcastic, which often had the opposite effect of scaring people off.  So this was a good reminder to take things slow and make a particular effort to be nice - you can wow them later with your sharp wit and spectacular impromptu dance moves.  When I did finally start to talk with people and feel a little less out of place, it became almost a little like a twisted summer camp, and when people would get called to go home, we'd all be sad and wish they weren't leaving us, but of course, no one wanted to STAY in jail.

I did get a lot of shit for not shaving my legs or armpits, and when people got up the nerve to ask about it, I almost didn't know what to say.  I was so used to being around people who either didn't shave themselves or at least understood it. My usual comeback of "why don't men shave?" didn't seem sufficient. So i talked about feminism, and how shaving was irritating to the skin, and liking the natural look, and all that.  Still, little comprehension.  They asked if i was gay, and if so, was i the stud, the man? They were shocked to hear I was the femme, and asked what my girlfriend thought about it.  It hadn't even occurred to them that I wasn't a freak and that she didn't shave either! 

Every time I peed in the toilet I was almost paralyzed with moral dilemma over whether to flush. After years of using composting toilets in all my friends' houses, peeing outside, or going by the "if it's yellow leave it mellow" method, I was truly loathe to flush after just one pee. In public toilets I often threw the incriminating toilet paper in the trash, not the bowl, so no one would notice that I had peed in there. But my first night in jail, in the other jail, where I was in a small cell, I tested out not flushing, and my cellmate woke up to insist I flush.  Every time after that, she would ask me to make sure that I'd flushed. So here in the big hall, with 40+ other woman, I didn't know what to do.  I hated the thought of all that purified water, stolen from our thirsty wetlands, being wasted all day long. Yet I also worried about being the gross, smelly, unshaven freak who didn't flush.  Every once in a while I would venture not flushing.  Once, though, a somewhat friend of mine got off her stall and walked back to check mine after I didn't flush.  I was like, oh man, why do people care so much?! She didn't confront me, though, but as I returned to the dayroom I saw her talking to a bunch of other and I just knew she was reporting her findings.  One of the more outgoing ones called me out and said, "Hey I wanna ask you a question, come to my bunk."  But I felt insecure and in no mood to go try to defend myself and my beliefs again, so I put it off. 

I was reading Julia Butterfly Hill's book about her two years tree-sitting in the tree, Luna, against everyone's, including the radical environmental community's, wishes. In the book at least, she presented herself as not caring about anyone's opinions, just her own principles, and I compared myself and felt weak and uncommitted and unworthy of the overwhelming support I had on the outside, people calling me a brave warrior.

That was a down day, but most days I felt fine, especially after getting books and sweatshirts and the letters were pouring in.  One of the hard things was people's occasional unwillingness to work together.  For the most part, people were nice to each other, though there were some fights, too, that seemed really stupid, like over ice.  And one time I was trying to watch TV, and out of all the tables in the room, a few people who were doing braids and not watching TV sat at the one closest to the TV and were chatting somewhat loudly.  After a few minutes, I spoke up, not able to figure out how to assert myself respectfully and successfully, so I stammered out something about wanting to watch TV and could they please not talk right in front of it? One woman shot back, "Well, we were sitting here first, bitch, so don't come sit near us and then tell us what to do." I tried to explain that normally this bench was reserved for people watching TV and if they didn't want to they could easily use another table.  She kept her attitude in high gear, saying "This is jail. we'll do whatever the fuck we want." This is jail.  This is jail.  So often I heard that, from inmates and guards alike, as a way to excuse some irrationality. Why aren't we allowed to stretch indoors? "This is jail." Why can't people talk softly after midnight when others are tying to sleep? "This is jail." Like that jail is miserable, so fuck you.  Like that the idea that we could work together to make it less miserable has been lost to many because of all the inhumane they've received in and out of jail. Those of us bent on creating a mutual aid society have to recognize that there are lots of wounds to heal before we can expect people to act out of compassion for others.

One day, I switched bunks to where the sun streamed across the bed.  A lover of the sun, I lay with my face in it, opening my eyes just enough to turn my lashes into prisms, throwing a curtain of color bursts across my vision.  With the relative peace afforded by wet tissue jammed into my ear canals, my legs outstretched, and no obligations lining up like football defenders to block my relaxation, I could summon the spirit of the beach.  the glint off the razor wire becoming the whitecaps of the waves, the edge of the fences stretching out into the distance, the pier, the uplifting blue, the same glorious blue, pacifying blue draping the background, and I thought of Fiefel the mouse wishing upon the same bright star.  But after a morning of this, the day erupted into a fight between my left and right bunkmates, each insisting on talking bad about the other to me, or screaming threats over me, and ratting each other out for contraband. The tension around me was so fierce, I had to abandon my idea of a beachy meditation and return to my old bunk.

Some days I walked around the dorm, trying to unstiffen my aching legs. Once I was startled by the sudden view of illuminated sabal palms against the night sky and gleaming razor wire, reminding me that this was the native Florida habitat I was fighting to protect. I often saw intensely colored sunsets, mot able to pay attention while in jail than out. I couldn't see stars or the moon, but above my bed were a patch of brown smudges that at night stood out in the form of the little dipper. Every night I wondered if it were deliberate or just a stunning coincidence. I liked to imagine someone had done it on purpose as a sign of hope, but also the idea of random smudges fading out to leave only the shape of a constellation was itself magical.

The most amazing thing of my time there were all the letters I received.  All in all, in my 23 days there, I got 110 letters and postcards! I felt so honored and impressed with my local and larger communities. I also at times felt a little unworthy, but it showed that what little work I had been doing for the environment and people was inspiring to people.  I can only hope that those with longer jail sentences are receiving such support, so if you're reading this, and not currently writing to other political prisoners (or amazing people you know who are locked up), please start.  It really makes a difference!

When people get released from jail after serving their terms, it is usually at 5:30am. My last night there I could hardly sleep, both from the noise and the anxiousness.  Everyone around me kept talking about me being gone before they woke up from their after breakfast sleep, but I told them I wouldn't trust anything until they said, "Purvis, pack it up." (the last three words being the best possible sentence to hear in jail.)  The 4:30am breakfast call, which usually rudely snapped me out of a beautiful dream about mangoes, avocados, or love affairs, found me lying in bed nervously.  I ate my last round of shit on a shingle, then asked the guard for permission to shower.  "You going to court today?" she asked.  "No, I'm supposed to be released today." She asked my name, then as if she recalled it from some list, said okay. 

I had given away all my non-uniform clothes already, so the warm water was again a refuge from the cold.  Then I lay back and stared and stared at the guard. Each time she moved I thought it was to call my name.  Having watched other inmates expecting release from bond or post-court O.R. release pester the guards about getting out, when we all knew they would call you only when they were good and ready, I had vowed to be patient. So I said nothing, just watched the guard.  When eight-o-clock rolled around, and the guards changed shifts, I knew something was wrong. 

The new guard immediately called for recreation and head outside. I went up to her to explain my situation, and she asked if I had any paperwork showing today as my release date.  I cursed myself because I HAD had one, but thinking I wouldn't need it, threw it away.  I asked if she could call in for me, but she said it would have to wait until after the hour of rec.  Oh, I was so upset, for being so foolish to believe I was leaving, for throwing away the paper, for being too patient.  People tried to talk to me as I paced around our tiny concrete courtyard, but I just ignored them, my arms inside my shirt for warmth. Normally I did yoga or exercises or ran, but I couldn't bring myself to be productive or healthy, only steep in my foul mood. 

Eventually I did sit down and some of the immigrant woman came up to me, having known I was supposed to leave.  They kept telling me "don't worry, you're going home today." Then they told me stories about how they were supposed to have been transferred to immigration weeks ago, but instead only have been shuffled between jails.  One woman told of how her family kept calling to find out what was going on, because Immigration legally only has ten days to pick up people after they finish their jail terms, and she finished hers over a month ago.  The family learned nothing. "But don't worry, you're getting out today."

How was her story supposed to be reassuring?  Not only did it present the real option that I would not be released as promised (I thought of Kafka and DJ Shadow), but even if I was, how could I feel good about her and countless others being senselessly and interminably detained?

After rec, we went back in and after the guard finished eating, she finally did call for me.  The report was that there was a paperwork issue but that I would be released soon.  Ah, so I had been forgotten!  Not too long later, I was called, and therein began the strange transition to normal life.  I was transported back to the main jail in a regular cop car.  The cop asked me about my arrest and the protest and jail.  I told him about how I wish there were more effort to make jail more rehabilitative, to encourage growth and learning amongst the inmates.  He responded that attempts at rehabilitation had been statistically proven expensive and ineffective, that jail was about one thing: punishment.  I have heard those same statistics, but still I believe there's got to be a etter way. Prison, as opposed to jail, is for longer term sentences and generally prisons have somewhat better resources, but that doesn't take jail off the hook in my book.
The release routine went surprisingly quickly and smoothly, and after 23 days of incarceration, carrying 110 letters under my arm, I stepped outside, felt grass and sun and the warmth of my lover's hug.  Ever so quickly, the whole experience began to fade into the past.