ANOREXIA AT THE MAINE JAIL
J. Grant Swank, Jr.
The sections were called "pods." So the most pods were given to the men. One pod was for the women.
A pod looked like this: one large room. You see, the large room was in vogue far ahead of today’s Great Room in the middle class homes. So it was in the large room that inmates mingled, paced back and forth, looked over their shoulders, sat on stationary metal benches secured to the floor. Benches were the "chairs" around metal tables secured to the floor.
To the one end of the large room was a door. It opened to a very small outside walk-around. That’s where inmates in good weather could get a breath of fresh air. Of course, the open space was surrounded by walls so the only thing a person could spy was the sky. Ever-present barbed wire was atop the walls, naturally.
Inside the large room was also a chin-up contraption by which an inmate could do some exercises if he were so disposed. Some of the fellows with muscles liked to keep those muscles rippling.
The philosophy varied from institution to institution. There was the time when muscle building was the thing. Then certain officials concluded that muscled inmates made for potential Big Boy attackers against guards. Therefore, muscle building went out in some units. It all depended on the facility’s management.
There was the guard station in the center of the large room. There the uniformed guard stood or leaned on a stool. There were papers atop a rectangular table. A communication network of phones and intercoms was secured there, too. Otherwise, the guard stationed himself or herself there for the watch, chatting with inmates or pulling away from inmates to build a private bubble around the self. Eight hours can be an extra long watch some days.
If it was a loose day when inmates seemed okay, guards would talk with them, exchanging jokes and the like. If the scene was uptight, no talkie.
There was a staircase that went up to a second tier of cells. Then there was the catwalk that stretched around that second tier. When you walked up the stairs, you could pass the cells, some doors open, some doors closed. A small window was in each door.
The cell was simple: thin cot, metal toilet without lid and metal wash basin. Nothing that could be used to hang oneself. No extras. No luxuries, that’s for certain. Bare necessities, like unto the monks of the Dark Ages. Stark was good; less was more.
Card playing was a staple. In a side room off the women’s pod was storage for some table games. There was a table. It held The Big Book — the Alcoholics Anonymous standby for any trying to kick the habit. There may be a Bible or two or three. There was at times a hymnal. Sometimes there were religious tracts and daily devotional booklets.
When I went into the women’s pod to conduct substance abuse classes, I met the inmates in the side room. Sometimes I’d come upon them crocheting. Salvation Army ladies visited them regularly and brought them some crocheting material. The women enjoyed something to do that was productive. They’d crochet and talk and crochet and talk. It was one of the few diversions; otherwise, jail time is boredom to the max.
On the fist level of the pod’s large room was a shower. You’d hear the shower running, then turn off, then start up again. Showers showers showers. Cleansing the soul? I don’t know.
If a fight broke out, watch out. Yelling carried high to the ceilings. The acoustics were remarkable in the pods. Talk about frequencies flying sky high. Men would screech, yell, burp, belch. Women would holler and scowl.
Of course, the "psych" on staff with me in the health services department, the latter an out-of-state firm contracted by the jail, didn’t care about the inmate population. He bragged on that. They weren’t worth it. He told us daily that the only reason he worked at that job was a paycheck. Period. So it was that he was exceptionally true to his demented philosophy. To the letter. None of officialdom appeared to care about his not caring; "psych" was just another staff person with a weird philosophy.
Therefore, when the young, thin, pretty woman in the pod needed desperately his help, nix. None. Zero. Done. Up and out. Zip. Whatever you wanted to call, it was that "psych" did nothing. That’s why her appeals on slips of paper lined my inbox every morning. She needed help. She needed counseling. She needed somebody to address her anorexia while she was in jail.
Just because she committed a crime, put behind bars, didn’t mean that her anorexia went away! But "psych" didn’t care. She could drop dead as far he was concerned. With that, she kept getting thinner and thinner.
I did what I could do. But her problem was not substance abuse. Therefore, my professional assistance was limited. However, I could listen to her. That helped. Listening is a tremendous gift to any of us when we need a willing ear — in or out of jail.
I felt so sorry for her. Sometimes she’d get so exasperated that she’d lose her temper. Then she’d flail out at some guard or another inmate. Screaming and yammering. Then the women picked sides. Some on her side. Some on the other side, whoever the other was at the moment. At least it broke the day’s smothering boredom.
Sad.
Some months after I had left the jail position, I drove into the country. There I came upon a mom-and-pop store, walked in, chatted with the owner — a woman in her late 50s, only to discover she was the mother of the anorexic. We commiserated. Once again, I felt so sorry for a human being — a mother who was desperate for her daughter but could do nothing practical to help her when she got in trouble so as to land in jail.
A few weeks later I came upon a fruit store. Who owned it? The anorexic’s father. Small world. We talked. I tried to comfort him but of course in truth my comfort could only go so far. The anorexia had been long-standing. Both mother and father wondered where their precious, lovely daughter would end — lifetime in and out of jail, dead from starving herself, clawed in a brawl.
Mother and father were middle class entrepreneurs. They made good money. Their daughter was not brought up in the dregs section of existence. She had a middle class home for childhood years.
I still stop at the fruit stand come summers. And I still talk with the father. He updates me. Nothing really new. Same ol’ same ol’. So my heart aches for her, the woman whom no one cares about, that is, when she lands back in jail.
The sections were called "pods." So the most pods were given to the men. One pod was for the women.
A pod looked like this: one large room. You see, the large room was in vogue far ahead of today’s Great Room in the middle class homes. So it was in the large room that inmates mingled, paced back and forth, looked over their shoulders, sat on stationary metal benches secured to the floor. Benches were the "chairs" around metal tables secured to the floor.
To the one end of the large room was a door. It opened to a very small outside walk-around. That’s where inmates in good weather could get a breath of fresh air. Of course, the open space was surrounded by walls so the only thing a person could spy was the sky. Ever-present barbed wire was atop the walls, naturally.
Inside the large room was also a chin-up contraption by which an inmate could do some exercises if he were so disposed. Some of the fellows with muscles liked to keep those muscles rippling.
The philosophy varied from institution to institution. There was the time when muscle building was the thing. Then certain officials concluded that muscled inmates made for potential Big Boy attackers against guards. Therefore, muscle building went out in some units. It all depended on the facility’s management.
There was the guard station in the center of the large room. There the uniformed guard stood or leaned on a stool. There were papers atop a rectangular table. A communication network of phones and intercoms was secured there, too. Otherwise, the guard stationed himself or herself there for the watch, chatting with inmates or pulling away from inmates to build a private bubble around the self. Eight hours can be an extra long watch some days.
If it was a loose day when inmates seemed okay, guards would talk with them, exchanging jokes and the like. If the scene was uptight, no talkie.
There was a staircase that went up to a second tier of cells. Then there was the catwalk that stretched around that second tier. When you walked up the stairs, you could pass the cells, some doors open, some doors closed. A small window was in each door.
The cell was simple: thin cot, metal toilet without lid and metal wash basin. Nothing that could be used to hang oneself. No extras. No luxuries, that’s for certain. Bare necessities, like unto the monks of the Dark Ages. Stark was good; less was more.
Card playing was a staple. In a side room off the women’s pod was storage for some table games. There was a table. It held The Big Book — the Alcoholics Anonymous standby for any trying to kick the habit. There may be a Bible or two or three. There was at times a hymnal. Sometimes there were religious tracts and daily devotional booklets.
When I went into the women’s pod to conduct substance abuse classes, I met the inmates in the side room. Sometimes I’d come upon them crocheting. Salvation Army ladies visited them regularly and brought them some crocheting material. The women enjoyed something to do that was productive. They’d crochet and talk and crochet and talk. It was one of the few diversions; otherwise, jail time is boredom to the max.
On the fist level of the pod’s large room was a shower. You’d hear the shower running, then turn off, then start up again. Showers showers showers. Cleansing the soul? I don’t know.
If a fight broke out, watch out. Yelling carried high to the ceilings. The acoustics were remarkable in the pods. Talk about frequencies flying sky high. Men would screech, yell, burp, belch. Women would holler and scowl.
Of course, the "psych" on staff with me in the health services department, the latter an out-of-state firm contracted by the jail, didn’t care about the inmate population. He bragged on that. They weren’t worth it. He told us daily that the only reason he worked at that job was a paycheck. Period. So it was that he was exceptionally true to his demented philosophy. To the letter. None of officialdom appeared to care about his not caring; "psych" was just another staff person with a weird philosophy.
Therefore, when the young, thin, pretty woman in the pod needed desperately his help, nix. None. Zero. Done. Up and out. Zip. Whatever you wanted to call, it was that "psych" did nothing. That’s why her appeals on slips of paper lined my inbox every morning. She needed help. She needed counseling. She needed somebody to address her anorexia while she was in jail.
Just because she committed a crime, put behind bars, didn’t mean that her anorexia went away! But "psych" didn’t care. She could drop dead as far he was concerned. With that, she kept getting thinner and thinner.
I did what I could do. But her problem was not substance abuse. Therefore, my professional assistance was limited. However, I could listen to her. That helped. Listening is a tremendous gift to any of us when we need a willing ear — in or out of jail.
I felt so sorry for her. Sometimes she’d get so exasperated that she’d lose her temper. Then she’d flail out at some guard or another inmate. Screaming and yammering. Then the women picked sides. Some on her side. Some on the other side, whoever the other was at the moment. At least it broke the day’s smothering boredom.
Sad.
Some months after I had left the jail position, I drove into the country. There I came upon a mom-and-pop store, walked in, chatted with the owner — a woman in her late 50s, only to discover she was the mother of the anorexic. We commiserated. Once again, I felt so sorry for a human being — a mother who was desperate for her daughter but could do nothing practical to help her when she got in trouble so as to land in jail.
A few weeks later I came upon a fruit store. Who owned it? The anorexic’s father. Small world. We talked. I tried to comfort him but of course in truth my comfort could only go so far. The anorexia had been long-standing. Both mother and father wondered where their precious, lovely daughter would end — lifetime in and out of jail, dead from starving herself, clawed in a brawl.
Mother and father were middle class entrepreneurs. They made good money. Their daughter was not brought up in the dregs section of existence. She had a middle class home for childhood years.
I still stop at the fruit stand come summers. And I still talk with the father. He updates me. Nothing really new. Same ol’ same ol’. So my heart aches for her, the woman whom no one cares about, that is, when she lands back in jail.
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