An American Radical:. Susan Rosenberg
I had paid little attention to on the outside, get stripped away in prison until the days seem like hours and years like days.
One day a guard walked by my cell wearing some new brand of cologne that I did not recognize. It assaulted my nose and reminded me of a smell that I had once enjoyed. That one small whiff sent me back through a tunnel of memories, lined with images, but I could not recall the name of the cologne or the place I first found it or what it cost or who else told me they liked it. I began to panic—my heart beat faster, I started to sweat and shake, and I could not stop. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to move except within the box in which I had already counted every step back and forth ten thousand times, and nowhere to look because I already knew every single inch of every single surface, every single crack in the concrete. This panic, this terror, this unbelievably painful feeling that ran from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, from my inner being to the hair on my arms, had all been caused by a man walking past my cell. It was then that I knew that pieces of me were melting away; I was losing some things that I would never get back. I realized I was doing time, and it was endless.
Then I adopted what is known as the thousand-yard stare, the convict glaze, or the impenetrable face. When in the presence of any official, show nothing, feel nothing, and try to ignore the broken shards of yourself that are falling at your feet. But when I was alone, I railed against my fate and beat at the bars, smashed my head and hands against the stones, to release the horror. Nothing worked, and I could only lament, What have I done? I wept until, finally, I lay curled up on the bunk, replaying the grief of being there, until sleep overtook me.
When Alex and I got out of solitary confinement and went back to the unit, we resumed the routines of prison life, but things weren’t the same. We were angrier, and both of us were viewed as more dangerous and more hostile than before. The COs rarely spoke to us. The two other women were less friendly and less inclined to talk with us. I stayed to myself, read and wrote and inspected my garbage every day to prevent another setup. I waited for visits from friends and lawyers. I had a bleak feeling about the future.
Visits from lawyers were important. One lawyer in particular, Mary O’Melveny, had been among the first lawyers to litigate Freedom of Information Act suits against the FBI and had been instrumental in exposing the FBI’s Counter Intelligence Program. Mary had represented the Harlem Acupuncture Clinic when it had been under attack by the government and had agreed to do my appeal, although she had not been my lawyer at trial. (I had asked her to represent me when I was first arrested; her answer, however, had been an emphatic no. She said she knew I would not abide by her strategy and she did not want to be involved in a legal fiasco. She was right about that.) I was so happy that Mary had agreed to appeal my sentence and work on my case now, because I had great respect for her and knew I needed someone with fighting capabilities. Mary was a litigator and therefore a great advocate, but she also had a passion that always seemed to light her from within. She surpassed all the male lawyers that she was surrounded by because of her brains and her looks. Being in Mary’s company was always a great relief because she helped to shoulder the suffering. When she came to Tucson, she was shocked at both the conditions she saw and the stories she heard. I had been there only seven months, but the reflection in Mary’s eyes let me know that I looked terrible. Her visit helped, all her visits helped, and over time they became a lifeline—they meant that I was still in the world in some way—but in the end my appeal was denied.
One day Debra, Alex, Rosita, and I were sitting in the outdoor recreation area the guards had made for us. Alex and I sat at one table and Debra and Rosita at the other. We called it our “patio,” because that was about how big it was. It was a fenced-off enclosure that ran the length of four cells along the side of the building. The chain fencing that formed the roof had a partial wooden covering and was surrounded by barbed wire. A wooden fence outside the chain-link blocked our view of the rest of the prison, but it also prevented the men out on the compound from seeing us. Still, our view of the sky was quite complete and magnificent. It was a sweltering day. The air was filled with the buzzing drone that comes when heat reverberates off asphalt.
I heard it before I saw it: tse tse tse. Then in the corner where the fence connected to the building I saw a large coiled rattlesnake, its head moving off the ground, its rattle shaking. It was about five feet from me. Very softly, almost whispering, I said, “Nobody freak out, nobody yell, but there is a rattlesnake by the wall.” Unbelievably, the other women did not scream, but glided quietly inside. I measured the distance between the door and me. There really was no decision to make, though. I had read somewhere that they don’t bother you unless you bother them. I made it inside and stood with everyone else at the window, watching the snake. It was not moving. About three minutes later the cellblock door swung open and a group of heavily suited COs burst in. They looked like astronauts, down to the visors covering their faces. One of them had a large paddle. They pushed their way onto the patio and stomped the snake to death. They battered its head so hard that even from where we stood we could see how broken it was. One of the COs took off his helmet and held the snake up, shouting, “Victory!”
Another officer took his helmet off and, with sweat pouring off his head, grinned at us. “Rattlers are our mascot,” he said, and he was serious. It was then I learned that every prison has its own animal, almost like a totem.
Passover was approaching. After many lawsuits over prisoners’ religious rights, the BOP had agreed to allow every prisoner one ceremonial meal a year—Passover for Jews, Ramadan for Muslims, Vesak for Buddhists, and Christmas for Christians. I had been a “once a year celebrate” kind of Jew before I had come to prison, but as I spent more time inside I realized that fighting for my right to practice Judaism was a way to fortify my identity. I wanted to have a seder, but I could not do it alone. Knowing that there were several Jewish men in the institution, I made my request to the associate warden, who came to our unit every other day. He rejected it. I argued that there was a precedent (I had been allowed to attend a seder at the New York Metropolitan Correctional Center the previous year), it was my right, and so on. He merely ridiculed me, saying my request was a ploy to see the men, that I wasn’t a real Jew. As we stood face to face at my cell door time was running out.
In jail there is an understanding that there are three things you never talk about: sex, politics, and religion. Those things are considered personal, and one’s beliefs about them worthy of respect, at least by old convicts and smart administrators. But the reality is that Christianity dominates what religious life there is within the BOP. Even if there are no other books to be had, there is always a Bible at hand. Even if the policy prohibits volunteers, they can get in if they are Christians. Other religions are seen exactly as that—other. In Tucson, there were not many Jews. In fact, Jews were more alien to the administration than other minorities. That’s why I was stunned on the eve of Passover to see the associate warden who had fought with me so viciously show up with two COs to escort me (though still in handcuffs and leg chains) to the Passover seder.
The ceremony was being conducted in the visiting room. When I walked in, the twenty-two men sitting around the table stood up and started clapping. They made room for me at the table. As I sat down one man immediately said, “Hey, Susan, good Pesach.” It was Harv, whom I knew from the New York MCC. He was a short, burly man with an unkempt beard, intricate tattoos from head to toe, and an enormous smile. I liked him. A former head of the Connecticut Hells Angels, he had been convicted of conspiracy, bribery, and extortion under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) Act, but I didn’t know the details. He moved to sit next to me.
He said to the CO standing watch, “Take off her cuffs.”
“No, orders are not to.”
“That’s bullshit—this is a religious service,” Harv continued. “I want to see the associate warden.”
Several other voices chimed in and I had visions of this small incident ruining the dinner. Harv whispered to me that he and the other men had been demanding for weeks that I be allowed to attend this meal. The men had not seen a woman prisoner be treated with such harshness before and they didn’t like it. I was surprised; the associate warden had certainly said nothing about it.
“Thanks a lot,” I said, “but I don’t want to be the cause of ending it.”