PART 2: PNM NORTH, SUPERMAX
BY TRACY SCHLAPP
SATURDAY, JUNE 14
We turn right off the byway between Santa Fe and Albuquerque, aptly named the Turquoise Trail for the mineral deposits found in the pinon and juniper dotted hills. As we enter the PNM complex, we are greeted by a security guard who is expecting our arrival. He directs us to follow the main road until we can travel no farther, assuring us that we can’t miss North, the state-run Supermax facility. We pass Old Main, which was built in 1885 and is now open for tours when it’s not in use as a movie set — a violent prison riot in the 1980s closed the facility by the end of the decade. We pass minimum, men in orange jumpsuits mill around in the yard. Off in the distance, we see a larger, new facility that is being filled with prisoners, relocated from a private prison in the southern region of New Mexico. As promised, we come to the end of the road and turn right: PNM North.
Supermax calls to my mind a cinematic mega-prison complex, surrounded by layers of extreme security, soaring towers and such. We pull in the parking lot and are surprised by the squat, unremarkable adobe-colored building. It’s 10am Saturday morning and the visitor’s parking lot is empty. Desolate. Again, my imagination has staffed this Supermax with layers and layers of correction officers. We walk up to the doorway and the sole officer greets us through the window with the slot open and ready for our IDs. We go through a doorway that doubles as a metal detector and our bags are run through the X-ray machine. We are in.
We are expecting to do a twelve-person workshop on Saturday, and then another one on Monday. We understand that prisoners will be escorted individually to a set of enclosures and we will be able to facility the writing workshop for an hour and a half. After that, Danny will play music along the corridors of the pods and folks will listen from their cells. The warden has arranged for someone to meet us with an amplifier.
An officer escorts us down stairwells and through concrete block passageways. Each door is unlocked by master control and slams with the familiar echoing thud. We come out of the first building into a central courtyard. This is not a yard per se, but a secured space dotted with caged rec spaces mostly used for transporting people from one building to the next. We are hand delivered to the next officer who will accompany us for our Saturday session. Once we are deep within the bowels of PNM North, we learn that staffing shortages have made it impossible to move prisoners.
We stand in the darkened control space problem-solving how we will adjust our workshop if we don’t have a group. We are offered access to as many pods as we wish to visit and an opportunity to go door-to-door to meet with people. We have a box of blue ball point pens and a stack of ruled paper. We’ll improvise.
It dawns on me that the simple façade of this prison downplays the architecture below. The building consists of 24 pods or units constructed of poured concrete. Only one pod can be opened at a time on the corridor with a controller watching above. We start at A, the port opens and we walk into a giant concrete space. Each of the units holds twelve cells that stretch six-across the back wall with an overhead second floor holding the remaining six cells. Depending on the unit, picnic tables with four attached stools are bolted to the floor. Each cell door has a locked food port and a narrow plexiglass window panel. On one side of the cells is a door that seems to lead to an outside space, maybe a caged yard. On the opposing wall stands a single-caged shower. This is where these men are contained every day, 23 hours in their cells.
The officer strides over to the doors and asks if the prisoners want their food ports open. Lights come on in some cells, some remain dark. Where ports are opened, we approach the side of the window and knock once, if a face appears we say hello. The first person I meet is a young man, with big dark eyes. He stands in front of the window and then, leans down to speak through the narrow slot. I crouch and introduce myself. It takes a few attempts to figure out the best way to explain how and why we are in Pod A. North has very little outside contact and so I settle on my script that emphasizes the writing programs in seven Oregon prisons and that we were invited by the Museum in Santa Fe to give a talk. I explain that I want to include them in writing a large collaborative poem, adding a line to the first line of e.e. cummings’s [i carry your heart (i carry it in]. Danny takes the cells on the second floor and works down the line, looking for participants. Sound bounces off every surface, so we need to be right against the plexiglass windows to hear the men speak.
The officer warns me to keep back for my safety, not to get too close to the food port. I heed him, and yet, find that we are met with respect and appreciation. As I read to them, their faces open as if cummings’s poetry was a key. A few men jump at the chance to write; others are more reluctant, but try anyway. I slip a piece of paper and the poem through the food ports and move to the next person. The first line comes back:
i carry it close to mine, my heart is found with every waking breath.
By the second pod, we have established our routine. The door pops and the officer announces our arrival. Each space is alike, though one unit might have a few paperback books on the table. I spot a beat-up copy of JD Saligner’s Franny and Zooey, I think of the copy gifted to my daughter by her drama teacher. Unit C brings our most enthusiastic writers. We meet Christian Mattoch whose positive energy radiates through the heavy metal door, he contributes:
i carry your heart with me) i carry love and hate
forgiveness and sorrow
for Death is Always with me
i pray it don’t catch me tomorrow
through pain and misery
i will always find a way to smile.
I am keenly aware that I stand at the doorstep of their houses. Each cell has a toilet in the corner near the door. A built-in writing surface is along the toilet wall, the bunk is across from the door and to the right, shelves facing, sometimes with a bit of drying laundry. We gather the pages and keep moving to allow time for Danny to play music in the pod. Each participant receives a letterpress card printed in my studio with an image of a burning heart created by our OSP artist Yeyin Chin. When we say goodbye, I place my hand on the plexi and I am met with a returning palm.
Danny sets up far from the cell doors to afford all the cells a view. He feels odd playing to the walls. As close as we have been talking through the plexiglass, we can only glimpse part of their faces through their windows. The experience is strange, disjointed. As a performer, Danny feels like he takes a leap of faith that they are listening and enjoying the performance — we do hear muffled clapping between songs. We end the afternoon on Unit G having connected with twelve writers, met countless more men, and playing to 73 people.
MONDAY, JUNE 16
We return Monday morning greeted by Deputy Warden Rodriguez, a 48-year prison veteran who apologized for being unable to meet us Saturday. Today, we have an hour for a writing workshop. We follow his sergeant back through the prison to a space with six black metal mesh enclosures, about the size of phone booths that line a wall. Each cage has a port for hands to be cuffed and uncuffed. In the corner, a florescent fixture casts an unsettling, flickering light. Six men are brought in, including Christian Mattoch one of Friday’s contributors — I express delight in seeing him again, which seems to put the other men at ease. They are directed to take their place in the enclosures and then locked in place.
As we start, the deputy warden decided to let them out and directs them to pull out their stools from the cages. We moved quickly through introductions to get into the meat of the workshop and a reading of Laura Da’s poem, Bad Wolf. The men seemed uneasy speaking about the poem, as they perch on little plastic stools. Consider the cognitive dissonance of being moved from cell to a room, from solitary to collective, from prison to poetry. When it’s time to write, the Sargent pulled up a narrow writing table so that we could gather in one place. I asked them to consider the ways they have adapted their language to accommodate life inside. In such a small group, I detect the jostle between them, nervous energy let loose in the open. Initial reluctance turns to generosity as they read their work.
I can’t write.
In here mainly the biggest change is the way I talk. Also, the way I see and treat and judge people is so much different now that I’ve done prison time. Gino Garza
I have adapted to living behind these walls by the way we talk, carry ourselves. Sad to say, we do live a certain way, so when we do get out it is a big shock. Rosalio Gonzales
Rather than being argumentative I’ve learned to say “OK”. My speech has degraded in order to “fit in” because all the time I didn’t want to sound too smart. I used to wanna correct everyone all the time, but now I stay quiet. I used to feel invisible, but now I feel as though I’m under a microscope. In the past, I would let most things roll off my back because I really just don’t care about much outside myself. But here I feel like everything is a test. Anonymous
I have adapted by learning to know myself better and having more patience than I have ever had and also learning to be giving to others that don’t have, and having respect for everyone, but I think when I get out of prison, it’s going to be a big change for me to adapt to society. Jason Romero
Christian Mattock writes the piece Adaptation while C. Zuv Zoco continues to write while we talk, until he finished his poem Bad Dreams! Upon hearing it, one of the men says, “You should stop shooting people and write poetry.” After the men are returned to their cells, the Deputy Warden makes note of the exchange and tells us that he sees the value of the workshop, if only for the men to see each other in a different light.
We pack up the writing and transition to music in the pods. The sergeant leads us to the tightest security area. Many times, these prisoners have come from facilities in other parts of the country and are celled here for at least a year. We note right away that only one food port at a time is opened, which requires that we only speak through the plexiglass. Once again, Danny and I alternate floors to introduce ourselves. The folks in this section welcome company. A few ask to be put on our mailing list for writing worksheets. Danny plays a selection of Johnny Cash to play in each unit along with Prison Warden Chelsea White and some of her staff who have come along to accompany us.
In the last unit, I look up to the second level to see a Latino man with his head pressed against the plexiglass. Danny is playing Trent Reznor’s Hurt, which Cash covered later in his life. The song is like a whisper that requires listeners to bend closer. The noise of that prison settles and Danny’s voice fills the space. As I scanned the windowpanes of the cells, I the man and I catch eyes. He makes prayer hands. I touched my hand to my heart and he responds in kind. | TDS