If one ever has the misfortune of entering a correctional facility, he or she will soon learn that freedom of expression or right to protest is merely an illusion. Yes, one can pick up a pen and pad and write their grievances to the appropriate individuals; yes, one can open his or her mouth and voice their displeasure, but at what cost?

Not long ago my friends and family made a long trip to the facility I am housed at. After embarking on a trip that lasted hours, they were denied visitation due to an administrative error (whether or not it was intentional is a subject for another story). Naturally, some members of the group were frustrated that an entire day, along with its wages, had been wasted on a trip to a town in the middle of nowhere, all due to an administrative mistake. When some individuals in the group expressed their displeasure, and requested to speak to the administration directly, they were asked to leave the facility. That is where my problems began.

For the three weeks following my family’s visitation I was effectively denied access to the commissary. This was done in a covert manner. Each week when commissary slips were distributed to inmates I was conveniently ‘forgotten.’

When I finally received a commissary slip I attempted to order fifteen cans of tuna, but instead was forced to accept fifteen jars of peanut butter. When I objected to receiving the peanut butter, I was told that I filled in the wrong bubbles on my commissary form. For readers who may be unfamiliar with commissary slips, one places an order by filling in a series of bubbles that contain numbers; the series of numbers you fill in should correspond with the item one wishes to order.

I explained that I was certain that I requested tuna, not peanut butter and that a mistake must have been made in hopes that I could still receive some tuna. Instead of attempting to rectify the problem, I was forced to accept fifteen jars of peanut butter. In fact, I had no other option but to accept the jars or else I would be given a violation, which could affect my parole. Having no other option, I lugged the fifteen jars back to my cell.

What could I do with fifteen jars of peanut butter? Fifteen jars would last months and prison regulations forbid me from giving them away to other prisoners, which again, could affect my parole if I’m given a violation. More critically, the fifteen jars of peanut butter cost $27, which is a large sum of money considering a prisoner’s state pay is only $20 per month. You can understand why this simple issue can lead to extreme frustration. Additionally, I was not allowed to accept only one or two jars and leave the rest, lest I be given a violation.

Let’s assume I did make an error on the commissary sheet. What harm would it have done for the administration to act humanely? Why force me to accept an item that will most likely be discarded? Why not allow me to decline to accept the peanut butter and deliver my tuna the following week? Why would that be so difficult? How does this coercive behavior and extortion help mold me into a more moral individual?
I shouldn’t even ask the question, because I know the answer. It’s not about molding me into a better person. It’s not about educating me. It’s not about helping me. This is how prison commissaries make millions of dollars (mostly coming from inmate families) each year. It’s also to break me. It’s to break me so that I can remain here another seven years, putting food into the mouths of correctional officers and administrators in rural Pennsylvania. My suffering is their pleasure, and the more people who succumb to their ways, the greater the COs’ paycheck.

I came to prison because of my mistakes, but once in prison I’m there for the officers’ and administrators’ gainful amusement. Perhaps I’m like the mouse that runs on the wheel. Officers who do nothing but walk up and down halls for eight hours a day need to be amused. I can understand that. Perhaps their forms of ‘punishment’ keep them amused. I’m sure for a few moments that a group of COs were laughing and bragging while telling my story, the story of an inmate who is the proud owner of fifteen jars of peanut butter.

If it had stopped there maybe I wouldn’t be writing this. A couple weeks later a few of my friends attempted to visit; one of those friends made the mistake of requesting to speak with an administrator on their previous visit. That individual was removed not only from my visiting list, but also from my calling list. Neither I, nor the visitor was informed of this. Worse yet, a guard in the visiting area told my friend that I removed her from the list. Can you imagine how hurt that individual might have felt while making the long trip home? Especially if I cannot call her?

But I’ll be okay. I understand that these annoyances are meant to destroy me – to keep me here another 10 years. And now I can also understand why an individual might feel justified when robbing a bank or convenience store only two weeks after release. That man or woman was robbed, again and again by the State, day after day, year after year. In those conditions, one who lacks proper moral education (which is not provided in prison) might consider committing a crime, believing that he or she is justified in doing so. After all, he or she was robbed for years. Thankfully I understand how the game is played, and will not travel down that same path.