This post is ©Kristin O. Lord 2015—17
J is for Jails (and other
forms of incarceration)
After a hiatus of more than
two years, I am feeling my way forward again with blogging. What follows is a
truncated version of a post composed as a draft in the summer of 2015. Although
I have removed the most obvious anachronisms, it is to some extent a period
piece from the vanished world of the Obama administration.
For those who may wonder, I
have eschewed venturing into the basement while alone in the house except when
I have had no other alternative.
I. The basement
“Just a twenty-minute run
through the living room with the central vacuum cleaner,” I thought, “and then
I will be on my way to Vermont to my aunt’s ninetieth birthday party and my
passport renewal on Monday morning. I should also get to Meeting in Middlebury.
Since no one else is in the house, I will be out of here in no time.” It was an
unseasonably warm day in the middle of May back in 2015. This meant that I
needed to disconnect the cord to the dehumidifier and reconnect the one to the
central vac. I opened the basement door, as I had done hundreds of times in the
two decades that we have owned our current house, and turned on the light
switch.
I then closed the door to keep
the cats from following me. As I did so, however, the sliding bolt that some
previous owner had installed on the basement door —perhaps to keep their
animals or children upstairs— worked its way loose from the open position and
slid across the outside of the door, locking me in.
I was in a bit of trouble for
several reasons other than the obvious ones. Let me start with the basic
geography. Our house dates from the Victorian era. About two-thirds of the first floor of the
main part of the house has a Victorian-style basement underneath; the rest of
the main portion of the house and the almost equally venerable addition in the
back has a crawl space. There is only one set of basement stairs and no
windows. However, looking at my surroundings, I could see the hot water heater,
electrical switch plate, furnace, and a nearly full tank of No. 2 heating oil.
Aside from those necessities, one might find wrapping paper, sealed plastic
storage bins of Christmas decorations, and detritus of various kinds. It is too
damp to store much of value. Clearly, we don’t spend time down in the basement,
so we have had no reason to spend the money to install a land phone line.
Because women’s clothes often have no pockets, I don’t usually carry my cell
phone with me (and I wasn’t that close to leaving the house on the day I was
locked in).
I looked at my watch. It was
shortly after 2:00 p.m. My husband and teenage daughter had been gone for at
least an hour. It was thirty minutes’ drive to the mall where they were
planning to run an errand. The errand should take no more than an hour, and
then they should be on their way back. Thus they should be back no later than
three.
In the interim, I tried in
vain to wiggle to lock back or finagle the door just so. I pressed on the smoke
detector and started shouting in the hope of alerting the next-door neighbors.
Now, as it happens, the walls of the main part of our house are of masonry,
about a foot thick. That means that I didn’t feel the minor earthquake we had a
few years back, but that also means that the neighbors probably wouldn’t have
heard the smoke detector go off even if they had been at the front door soliciting
for the cancer drive.
At about 2:45 a phone rang
upstairs. Great: the family at the mall think I have already left for Vermont,
and they probably won’t be back until late this evening. Maybe they were going
to see a movie. They usually go see thrillers and crime movies when I am out of
town. That’s it.
“I’m going to have to escape
from the basement,” I thought. I cast a gimlet eye on that tank of No. 2
heating oil. The master switch to the furnace was overhead —I did imply above,
I think, that the heat of the day meant that the circulating fan was running,
not the furnace per se— but, frankly,
having control of the master switch was not good enough, given the mere
existence of that fuel oil, nor was spending however many hours cleaning up the
basement. Besides, there was no toilet, and the only item resembling a
receptacle that was readily apparent was
a plant pot with holes in the bottom. So, how was I going to break out? Because
of the dampness, we had removed any carpentry equipment of value years ago.
Rifling through that one drawer that might have something, I could find the
screwdriver we last used to repair the sewing machine. Elsewhere, my search
turned up an ice pick, two ski poles, and a garden shovel with a pointed end.
Where the ski poles should have been used:
Mt. Mansfield, Vermont
Photo © Jared C. Benedict 2004
Wikimedia Commons
I efficiently got the door
handle off the door, but the hole was too small to work anything down to touch
the bolt. I went after the side door jamb nearest the bolt with the ice pick,
which broke off almost immediately. It was now 3:00. No sign of any humans, and
by this time the cats, far from trying to get into the basement, would long
since have hidden under a bed upstairs.
At this point I remembered
that falls on the basement stairs were notoriously dangerous. Indeed, I could
think of an example. At the very least, I needed to brace myself with the
railing against the inevitable ricochet of force if the ski pole managed to
dislodge the door jamb.
Success!! But even with about
a quarter to three-eighths of an inch of the bolt now visible, I couldn’t pry
it off with the ski pole or whack it away with the shovel.
Let’s get real: The door was
solid pine about an inch and a half thick. I had a weak right wrist and knee
not completely healed from falling off the ladder the previous summer. I could
try to use the shovel to break a hole in the door, but was that in my best
interest? In any case, it was an insult to humanity to think that I was
escaping from the Lubyanka. The thought of the Dannemora penitentiary in
upstate New York might have come to come to mind had I bothered to consider the
comparisons; I have driven by there many times, and two Friends from Middlebury
had an once had an extensive research and volunteer project at that “facility.”
However, the only successful escape from Dannemora in more than a century had
not yet taken place. The two prisoners who tunneled their way out some days
later were probably burrowing under the prison wall as I was contemplating
whacking the shovel against the basement door.
I whacked the door. Splinters
came off at the edge. I would be blasted if I would stay entombed without any
means of egress. It would be just my luck to have an emergency with the
furnace. There was no toilet. How long would it take for people to come back?
It was 3:15. No one was clambering up the front steps. I kept going. 3:30. I
was a third of the way through the thickness of the door, and the phone rang
again upstairs. I found a bag and a wallpaper brush to start removing
splintered wood from the stairs as I beat the door with the shovel.
By 4:15 I had chiseled a rough
opening over an inch in diameter and used the shovel and ski pole to dislodge
the bolt just enough to open it. I then locked the door from upstairs with the
same bolt (which, amazingly, was still more or less intact). I retrieved my
purse and found the two unanswered calls on my cell phone, to which I was
finally able to respond.
The other humans in the family
turned up an hour later, incredulous that someone with a weak wrist had even
wanted to break down the door. Why didn’t I trust them? Trust?? By that time I
had booked our handyman to repair or replace the basement door and install a
modern door knob and lock. I was on my way to the shower and in no mood to take
questions.
I was also in no condition to
drive to Vermont until the next day.
That evening my husband and daughter alternated between fearing that I
must have been out my mind just a bit (something they might have suspected
already), expressing concern that the more nervous of our two cats might be in
hiding for several days (in the end, she came out from under the bed at dinner
time), and sympathizing with me to the extent that being imprisoned, to all
intents and purposes, and for no good reason, would have been nerve-wracking.
Any reasonable person would have been frightened.
Looking at a Psychology 101
textbook would show that what I experienced was a classic example of the
fight-or-flight instinct. There is a rush of adrenalin, which explains why my
wrist held up through the entire “adventure.”
People react better or worse in such situations, depending on a variety
of factors specific to the circumstances, the society in question, and the
individual. I belong in the “worse” category, for a variety of reasons which I
do not wish to divulge at the moment, but which —believe me— would explain my
response. Those reasons were no doubt the basis of my husband’s decision to not
give me me a hard time for breaking down the door. Other people might not have
been so generous.
As I drove to Vermont the next
morning, I kept looking in the rear view mirrors. I was relieved when I saw no
unusual situations on the road and no unexpected sightings of police officers.
I kept thinking of how I might react if I were caught in the wrong place and
the wrong time by a police officer —or
any other person wielding a weapon— who might have a negative presupposition of
my ethnicity, gender, or some other feature over which I had no control.
I missed Meeting for Worship,
my aunt’s ninetieth birthday party, and those relatives who got to the party
but who had to leave afterward. As those who read my “I” post of 2015 will
realize, I did manage to make the 10:00 a.m. appointment on the following
Monday in St. Albans to renew my passport, and I spent some time with my aunt
that afternoon on what was her actual birthday. Talk about privilege.
II. Jails as a paradigm of
social organization: a personal meditation
The French philosopher Michel
Foucault viewed much of a given society through the lens of how it metes out
discipline and punishment. In this regard, Quakers in English-speaking countries
in what is now the OECD have had an unusual trajectory, moving from the
persecuted to the privileged leaders of reform, while using the experience of
previous generations of Friends as the rationale.
It is difficult to believe
today that when the penitentiary was first developed, it was considered an
improvement on the status quo. Certainly the goal of rehabilitation is one of
the great social innovations, even if the means of solitary confinement was
disastrous. Solitary confinement entails taking the silence in Meeting for
Worship to the extreme, denuding it of the Friendly community upon which it
depends for both its spiritual division and sense of humanity. The Friends who
were instrumental in the development the penitentiary system thus anticipated
Foucault’s conclusion by using their religious organization as a social
paradigm to exact punishment.
Reconstruction of the chapel of the penitentiary of Port Arthur, Tasmania
The chaplain and the head guard could see the prisoners, but the prisoners could not see each other.
Photo ©Kristin O. Lord 2008
What is my own experience with
this paradigm? Mercifully, it is not direct, as my reflections in part I above
will imply, although I suggest that privilege has been a much of a factor as anything.
I took the first level of AVP
(Alternatives to Violence Training) in the now-defunct Guelph prison in 1995,
but it became clear that I might have more to offer in another capacity, at
least at that time. This is one of several areas that I may wish to revisit
when I retire, although my rather strong visceral reaction to confinement
suggests that I need to think very carefully about any role inside a prison.
I have known Friends who have
volunteered at Dannemora, the prison in Guelph, and the Canadian federal
women’s prison in Kitchener. They have all given a great deal, in both time and
convenience. For instance, at the very
end of December, 2012, one Friend, a regular visitor at the local women’s
prison, gave moving vocal ministry at Meeting for Worship about how she had
spent a day of her Christmas vacation participating in the choir at the prison
chapel.
Where had we spent the
vacation? I started to fidget and look at my feet. I hadn’t done anything
remotely comparable.
Admittedly, Christmas of 2012
was not a happy one for us for a host of reasons. To complicate matters, one of
our cats died of an undiagnosed heart condition a week before the holiday, and
then inclement weather precluded our annual trip to Vermont. There was nothing to
do but to move up our trip to the local humane society, in this case the fine
organization in Guelph, Ontario to look for another cat. For purely selfish
motives, we wanted something to smile about, and we had no trouble finding that
something —or, rather, that someone.
When listening to our Friend
talk about the protocols for going into the prison, I realized that the
penitentiary was the model for the local humane society as well. At least in
this regard, Foucault is right about the prison as a paradigm for the broader
society. For instance, since many shelters have not been able to save the lives
of all animals who come into their care, the death penalty is a common part of
the system. Animals at the shelter we visited are kept in barred cages, usually
individually. Their feet cannot even touch the floor of the building due to
risk of infection. While the people who run their shelter give everything they
have and more to improve living conditions, animals can hardly be said to
thrive. Some react worse than others; given several animals who are identical
except for behavior, the one who has the fewest problems in the shelter will
probably find a home first. Although the Guelph Humane Society is filled with
caring staffers who give the animals more than most of us could muster, their
charges had understandable received relatively little attention over the
December holidays.
While the kittens at the
shelter acted as kittens and received the typical amount of attention from
visitors, some of the adult cats did not bother to wake up when people entered
the room. The one we had thought might especially interest us based on the web
profile —a sweet-looking two-year-old— gazed at us quietly and then lay calmly
in our arms. She seemed to be a good fit for a household whose surviving cat
was nearly a decade her senior. The fact that the staffer writing up her
profile described her as “playful” seemed incongruous — until she was at our
vet having her check-up after we had officially signed her paperwork. She
immediately attacked the computer cables in the examination room. When she came
home, she did not calm down for three weeks. She is still an extroverted,
high-octane soul. The six weeks she spent in the shelter in that puny cage must
have been pure torture.
the cat in question, about to break into a set of exams, despite a pillow as barrier
Image ©Kristin O. Lord 2017
If anyone wants to do an
animal experiment to assess how human prisoners react when let out of jail,
they need look no further than the typical humane society. (I have not yet
checked the scholarly literature to determine whether such a comparison has yet
been made.) Is there a better way to organize a shelter? Yes, there are healthier
arrangements for most animals (some need to be segregated for various reasons),
and the use of fostering is increasing. These alternatives require more space,
attention, and money, however, and only the best-funded organizations can put
them into place. That’s a real pity: in the longer run, fewer animals may be
returned to the shelter due to behavioral problems and mismatches with owners.
The crux of the problem is the
mindset that animals —whether human or non-human, quadrupeds, bipeds, furred,
feathered, or scaled— are disposable.