Sometimes truth and reality are complete strangers, and not to each other, but to those of us who haven’t bothered to look or haven’t been met with the truth yet.
But I’ve been in the trenches. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I’ve even tasted it. In fact, I am now having myself another bitter little bite, down here in the bowels of the Oregon Department of Corrections’ solitary confinement, a place most commonly known as “the hole.”
I can, with all certainty and without hesitation say that it is not at all the way they show it in prison movies. Those are actors, playing pretend, a script — simply something to sell as entertainment, just what the people want, something to buy.
Enrique Bautista, 37, is a prisoner at Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem. He has been in prison since 2003.
But even though all those new lockup TV shows, gang documentaries and YouTube videos are actually shot in prison, they often fall short when trying to expose the belly of the beast for the rest of the world to see.
Generally, what they show is nothing more than a glamorized version or rendition of the truth — the best angle of the sad reality, and not the true face of the indiscriminating monster.
Although I think of this place more along the lines of the rear-end of the beast, simply because it is the last stop after we’ve been devoured and digested, and it just doesn’t get any lower than this before the exit — if there ever is one.
Some of us may never make it out of here alive. In 2020, 10 deaths by suicide and isolation were reported in Oregon, in county jail alone.
People die in the hole, and those souls are forever trapped in these cells, where society’s scum continues to accumulate on a daily basis.
Prisons’ fuck-ups are stored like mushrooms, in the dark, because we are considered waste in the body of the institution. We are the cream of the crap. And so here we are, contained and treated as such. But in spite of the fact, I could never hold myself in that regard. It is difficult here in prison, but not impossible.
Imagine attempting to climb up a dirty old chimney, all dressed in white, or swimming in a disgusting cesspool, filled with alligators. What could be expected? What could anyone do? The answer is a simple one: Get dirty or die trying not to.
More than likely, everyone in prison — model prisoners included — will at some point during their incarceration find themselves in solitary confinement for one reason or another. Anything small and petty like being out of area, disrespect, disobeying an order or being drunk to something more serious, like murder, rape, possession of a weapon, cash or a cellphone, or an inmate-staff relationship and things of that sort. But the whole ordeal always begins in a similar fashion for everyone.
For me, this time it started when I heard the direct order: “Turn around to face the wall, now.” Then another command: “Put your hands behind your back, now.” As if a blind, deaf and stupid dog were being trained to learn a new and difficult trick. Except there aren’t any tasty treats in exchange for compliance, only the teeth of the cold and hard handcuffs, biting down into my flesh, as if, to drive the point home, without the use of the actual words, “You’re going to the hole.”
And it is then, and from that submissive position, that the journey into this swift and hungry place begins to unfold right in front of me, just this morning.
Two low-ranking officers, one on each side, roughly, or perhaps just a little too eagerly, hold me — a man already in restraints — by my arms, while a third officer, their higher-up, supervises the procedure. He follows close behind at the same ridiculously hurried pace, shouting direct orders at any inmate we may encounter along the way. He is demanding to stop and face the wall, no talking, until the escort is out of sight. The risk of suffering the same fate for failing to comply to stay put and quiet after the escort is long gone is quite imminent. And everyone knows this. And so, a sigh of relief is almost palpable when the condemned is finally taken away and everyone can breathe.
For some reason, that part always reminds me of a great white shark swimming fast on the water toward the school of fish. The closer the shark gets to them, the quicker they swim and scatter, getting out of the way, trying not to get devoured like me. However, even after all that has transpired, it isn’t really until that heavy door slams shut with a bang behind me and the handcuffs are removed that reality sets in, and the experience truly begins. In a small room, filled with fluorescent light that hurts the eyes and only emphasizes the filth on the once-upon-a-time Snow White concrete walls, a dusty floor crawling with dirty little bunnies, and someone’s yellowish toenails scattered all over the floor. This mattress, and a stainless steel washable, and this toilet, one above the other, making it a single unit bolted onto the back wall. Not to mention the loudest ventilation system, blowing freezing cold air night and day, turning each individual cell into Mount Everest, forcing every living soul down here to find shelter and warmth under thin and scratchy blankets, but only for a little while, or for as long as it takes to get used to this to this new environment, to the hole, to solitary confinement.
So it is from under one of those blankets, on my first night here, that I am now writing this down, but only in memory, for my eyes are closed. And my body is wrapped in the security of my own little world, trying to store each and every one of my thoughts and feelings inside of my innermost memory bank, trusting my mind to be stronger than a piece of writing paper, to hold this all together in one place until I can get a pen and maybe something to write on. Perhaps later tonight, tomorrow, or until I can figure out what officer is running this show and how he or she chooses to do so. This is their domain, or so they think.
But that thought doesn’t bother me anymore, or as much as it used to, years ago, when I was a lot younger and new to this. Now I know for a fact that any person with some time on their hands can, and sooner or later will, learn the true definition of patience and how to adapt and make do.
It sounds simple, or as simple as that might sound, it really is that simple.
But in all my time, I have learned that we are not all created equal. Everyone has different strengths, as well as weaknesses. But this place is super complex. It’s almost as if it has a life of its own. So it makes no difference — to destroy minds, bodies and lives is the ultimate goal.
And the outside buys that idea simply because it is served to them as rehabilitation practices and discipline. Nope, not punishment. That seems harmless, normal, simple things that the average person should be able to tolerate and even enjoy for a while. But how much is a while? Of solitude, of peace and quiet, of sleep and plenty and no worries, no job to go to, zero responsibilities, time to relax and to think, all those things are lies and inaccurate. And there is such thing as too much, and too much of anything hurts. A thousand little pets could eventually kill.
It’s no wonder some people take their own life in here. I’m not talking about a couple of hours in your bedroom with no phone, or a timeout with no video games. Imagine being stripped away of anything and everything you can think of and being at the mercy of this person every few days for months on end, and sometimes years.
Imagine yourself in the ill-fitting clothes that I’m now wearing, the bright orange scrubs I was given upon my arrival, stained and ripped, the strips-down purple underwear, and the socks with holes in them, all clean, yes, but musky and wrinkled because all of it is washed in a big pile, with dust brooms, mops and cleaning racks included. First come, first served. We get what we get. And sometimes we don’t get anything at all. They call me needy if I ask, and they won’t know my needs if I don’t. How does that sound?
I folded my mattress in half the long way. Because it’s so thin. I know my back will hurt in the morning. So will my neck. That’s why I use my blanket as a pillow. I doubt I’ll get one this week, and it’s only Monday. But at least I know what to expect. You wouldn’t.
Showers? Three times a week. From my tiny cell to the tiny shower room, the size of a British phone booth, always in handcuffs. Sometimes a tether is used, as if a vicious and rabid dog we’re being taken for a walk. When the cuffs come off, and I’m securely locked in the shower, a timer begins to hum and click: 10 minutes. Sometimes less, but never more. A roll is handed to me, and my clean clothes. I’m standing in a pool of dirty water in some sandals that are three sizes too big for my feet. Take me a few minutes to undress and kick my discarded clothing out through the bottom of the door, and a few more to try hanging the rest on the door handle so that I can then stand under the trickle of scalding hot water to wash my body with a tiny bar of hand soap.
Did I mention that I’m not allowed to purchase any hygiene items for the first 30 days? That is, if I had money, because sharing is not allowed. Passing stuff from one person to another is almost impossible, and getting caught usually results in a disciplinary report, a fine and more time in segregation.
The food we get here is the same food they serve to the general population. Or at least it is supposed to be. The only problem is the quality and the portions. The food is made in large batches in the kitchen. So the flavor or presentation are not important. And nobody wants to work in the kitchen. But Measure 17, or the OAR (Oregon Administrative Rules), states that all inmates have to work. So they do. However, what can anyone expect from a questionable character with poor hygiene habits who doesn’t want to be there in the first place? Missing items on the tray, small portions, or chocolate pudding on my salad — which isn’t bad — compared to the strange looking curly hair on a pancake. Would you eat that? Some would complain, others would simply ignore it.
But the dissatisfaction and frustration is always there. And so, a lot of people here in the hole usually end up turning into what we call “freaks.” Pressure gets to them, and they break. They say and do things and get them into a wreck with other cars here in prison. And so they end up spending long stretches in complete isolation. I believe some of these people actually suffer from mental illness. But unfortunately, it doesn’t matter to the rest of us. Because a freak is a freak, and disrespect is not tolerated. It’s amazing to me how the psychological aspect of solitary confinement is one that affects us the most.
A guy once came into the hole. The first day in prison, someone assaulted him. As it is customary in the hole, he was questioned: Who are you? What are you in the hole for? And, most importantly, why are you in prison? It turns out this guy killed his 18-month-old baby. Someone recognized him from county jail, and well, there is no hiding in prison, or the hole.
Words can touch anyone with ears to hear, even through locked doors and long distances. This individual was drilled for a few minutes, and that’s all it took for someone to convince him to take his own life for what he did to his child. I almost felt sorry for him. He wasn’t successful in killing himself. He was taken away to another cell in a different unit. And I almost feel sorry for that, too. Because that day was the first day, the first time for this guy. And this, this is it forever — for the rest of his life. It really is like hell here in the hole, with demons finding harmony with everything wrong going on. Silent and scared, and at times, even that silence for too long hurts.
The noise is even worse. I can’t think. I can’t concentrate. I can’t even read a book, write a letter, or hear my own thoughts. And just now, if on cue, my neighbor, this crazy kid, is going off on one of his usual rants, rambling about things and making me laugh sometimes, especially when others get him going. But other times, I can hear him through the wall, talking to himself, arguing with someone who’s not even there, saying pretty gruesome and disturbing things. And I wonder if the hole, if solitary confinement, did this to him, or if it only made it worse. I don’t know. I just know that it’s not right. Breaking something trying to fix it is not right.
After almost 18 years of incarceration, many of which have been in the hole, I can definitely tolerate being segregated and isolated for long periods of time. I can also deal with being looked at and often treated as a thing or an animal instead of a human being, all without letting it affect me. Or rather, showing that it truly does and how much simply by pretending to be unfazed by it, and talking myself into believing that.
Yet, in spite of the fact, I highly doubt that myself or anyone else for that matter, could genuinely get used to this environment, or to being treated with such deliberate indifference and disdain. Personally, I feel as if every moment of my life that I stand inside of this place, a little piece of me has been lost forever. And I’m afraid that I’ll never be the same again.
But over the years, I’ve also come to realize that for some strange reason that I’ve yet to understand, we, here in prison, have a tendency to purposely normalize or distort certain memories into altered or counterfeit recollection of all the time we spend in solitary confinement. I would guess we subconsciously do that to reflect a better, sturdier version of ourselves, or perhaps even to make us look and feel more like victorious conquerors than barely alive survivors upon released.
But even all that put together never amounts to more than someone’s true feelings and private thoughts. Therefore, the truth always remains hushed. It’s almost as if everyone I know, myself included, would much rather deny this harsh reality than face it, accept it, for what it is — or even try to fix it. Instead, somehow, we always find a way to glamorize this place and our painful struggles as if some type of weird satisfaction is supposed to be derived from our suffering within these walls. Perhaps that’s where the invisible downward spiral into madness begins to swallow us all. Madness being the act of repeating the same behavior over and over while expecting a completely different outcome each and every time.
And so, all of those thoughts and feelings remain hidden and unexplained, unexplored as we remain silent in hiding our pains, fears and worries behind these locked doors here in the hole, just like stoic little dogs inside of small cages at the dog pound, just waiting to be put to sleep. That is with solitary confinement is, in my experience.