Wednesday, September 13, 2023
I woke up this morning, Wednesday, September 13, 2023, in Miami, for the second day, at the South Florida Reception Center (SFRC).
I'd expected to transfer to my permanent institution this morning, but they passed me by. Maybe tomorrow.
I last wrote about my transfer Friday, September 8th, at the Orlando reception center. I spent an uneventful weekend in Orlando, then, Monday morning at 4:00 a.m., I was rudely awakened by a guard slapping my mattress. 'Norman, pack up."
4:00 a.m.! We weren't actually to leave Orlando until 2:38 p.m., a sweltering hot tin can bus packed with dehydrated and suffering prisoners finally hitting the turnpike south. We made good time, relatively speaking, and arrived at SFRC at 6:15 pm. Our journey wasn't over. At least the chains finally came off.
I don't know how the FDOC does it, shuffle hundreds of prisoners on dozens of buses from four reception centers to prisons statewide every day. It's a miracle of mass movement and coordination. The prisoners' comfort is sacrificed in the need to process people like cattle.
When we staggered off that last bus, every man was exhausted, overheated, clothing soaked in sour, smelly sweat, wiped out, interested in only two things, water and a bathroom.
Soon several dozen prisoners were ordered into a big circle for a group strip search. I don't need to explain how dehumanizing and demeaning that is. A guard conducts the mass search. Like strippers losing their clothing one piece at a time, the prisoners hold up each item of clothing and shake them out. "Hold your socks up by the toes. Shake 'em out. Set 'em on the floor in front of you...Your pants... shirt...tee shirt... your boxers...Raise your penis... your testicles...Turn around... bend over... spread your ass cheeks... cough three times..." Sounds like a tuberculosis ward, all the coughing. "Get dressed."
Similar scenarios occur at every stop. Finally, after 9:30 pm, we got to our dorm. Stripping practice came in handy. I hurried out of my clothes for the second time that evening and raced to the showers, cold water — fine with me. I beat the crowd.
The thin, lumpy, stained mattress felt like a Simmons Beautyrest. I conked out.
This is a huge prison. You could fit Lake C. I. on SFRC's rec yard, with room to spare. It is a hike to go anywhere.
We are under the flight line of Miami International Airport, and outside the dorms wide-eyed prisoners stare at the big jets landing.
A major prison consideration — the food is better here, too. That's where I'm going next — the chow hall — lunch.
More later.
Charlie
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