How a Community Rallied to Change Prison Rules During COVID-19

Here at the Washington State Reformatory in Monroe, four living units鈥攅ach housing roughly 200 prisoners鈥攕hare one recreation yard. And around this time of year, I could watch as teams gathered almost daily to compete on the soccer field or practice around the baseball diamond, as countless residents strolled the quarter-mile track, which surrounds both.

Outside the track, some played horseshoes, bocce, handball, basketball, and used the array of pullup and dip bars, while others sat at cement tables slapping cards and banging dominoes. Needless to say, our yard isn鈥檛 small.

All this changed in early April, after news that the inside a state prison had been confirmed at Monroe Correctional Complex, where the reformatory is. Courageous fellow residents, refusing to be bribed into appeasement with fast food, staged what would become the first protest at a U.S. prison over staff negligence amid the pandemic.

The incident on the evening of April 8 gained national attention as guards deployed nonlethal weapons against demonstrators in our minimum-security unit after they refused to return to their living quarters. It resulted in a mandate that staff be required to wear face masks while at work.

It felt like a victory to those of us who had lost our right to liberty. And though I didn鈥檛 participate, I was grateful to those who did, because, like them, I don鈥檛 want to die.

A demonstrator at the governor’s mansion in St. Paul, Minnesota, carries an “Abolish ICE” sign while protesting in front of signs to let low-level prisoners out of jail because of the spread of the coronavirus through prisons. Photo by Michael Siluk/Education Images/Universal Images Group/Getty Images.

However, it was short-lived. The Washington State Department of Corrections responded by implementing restrictive measures under the pretense of promoting social distancing, and the number of bodies allowed in the recreational areas was drastically reduced.

Now three times each day, hundreds of us, desperate for fresh air and to bask in the sun鈥檚 rays鈥攚hich we believed might neutralize this deadly virus, 鈥攕print through the halls and crowd at the turnstile. We press into each other鈥檚 backs while a guard uses a handheld device to count us through. Once 150 of us have passed, the turnstile locks, leaving those of us not lucky enough to exit gazing out at our massive yet eerily desolate yard, before trudging back to the much smaller living units, which have remained perpetually crowded since these regulations were put in place.

The reformatory is more than 100 years old and was clearly not designed with the intention of protecting its occupants from the spread of a contagious illness. So the volume of residents packed indefinitely into such sparse units has made social distancing, for us, impossible.

We wear masks, but alcohol-based hand sanitizer has been refused, despite repeated requests. Each living quarter has 10 phones and two kiosks, which provide access to email and video visits. The areas designated for waiting to use these devices are woefully inadequate, so crowds stand elbow-to-elbow waiting to make contact with loved ones.

Protesters hold up signs asking to free prisoners and noting prison deaths in Framingham, Massachusetts, on May 3, 2020. Families for Justice as Healing organized a drive-by rally around MCI Framingham, a women’s prison hit hard by the novel coronavirus with 71 confirmed cases. The rally was meant protest the conditions as well as show solidarity for those still incarcerated. Photo by Blake Nissen/The Boston Globe/Getty Images.

Others, not wishing to spend all day in their 6-by-9-foot cells, flock to these areas to socialize. Arguments and fights have broken out over who鈥檚 next in line; more often than not, the phones and visit stations don鈥檛 work because the providers have become overwhelmed with more business than they can handle.

To date, at least here at Monroe have tested positive for the virus, and one correctional officer has died.

It鈥檚 worrisome to think administration officials somehow don鈥檛 comprehend that the solution to crowding is spreading out. And it鈥檚 distressing, as well, to anybody taking Centers for Disease Control and Prevention鈥檚 COVID-19 guidelines seriously, because essentially the Department of Corrections has interpreted them in such a way that allows them to be weaponized and used as retaliation for having been protested against.

Whether or not their intention is to kill the population they鈥檝e been entrusted to guard, their actions have clearly accelerated the spread of the virus in our community. Not long after they began implementing restrictions, coughs arose out of the crowds, units were temporarily isolated, and some of my neighbors disappeared. It was rumored鈥攁nd later confirmed鈥攖hey had been taken to segregation (the 鈥渉ole鈥�), and locked down with nothing but a couple of randomly chosen books to keep them company.

We later learned from an attorney on TV that the conditions our quarantined peers were living under were even worse than we had speculated. An ombudsman report revealed that residents had been forced to either drink mysteriously brown water from their sinks, or succumb to dehydration and possibly death. They had also been denied access to phones and showers, and provided with little to no information on whether or not their lives were in danger. Upon return鈥攚eeks later鈥攖hose who tested negative claimed they would rather have been in the hole.

The words “help we matter 2” are seen written in a window at the Cook County Department of Corrections, housing one of the nation’s largest jails, is seen in Chicago on April 9, 2020. The jail has seen a rise in coronavirus cases after two inmates tested positive on March 23. Photo by Kamil Krzaczynski/AFP/Getty Images.

So as symptoms spread, my neighbors began concealing them. Most of us have experienced the psychological torture of segregation and have no desire to relive it for contracting a virus that was likely introduced into our home by DOC staff. At night, coughs still ring out, and during the day hoarse voices assert that they鈥檙e 鈥渏ust gonna ride out鈥� the illness.

I recently listened to a reporter quote data from an Ohio state prison, where , and only about 150 experienced symptoms. These numbers have since been widely publicized and used to make politically charged points about whether or not it鈥檚 safe to reopen nonessential businesses. However, if what鈥檚 happening in my home is reflective of what鈥檚 happening in prisons across the country, then the number of symptomatic carriers is likely much higher, as prisoners are being motivated to hide their symptoms.

I can鈥檛 help but think that what鈥檚 happening here at the reformatory, and possibly in prisons across the country, stems from a mentality that places more value on power plays to keep us in line than on protecting human life. However, neither I, nor any of my neighbors were condemned to death (by any court) at the hands of angry prison guards. So if there ever was a time to have a conversation about this mentality, it鈥檚 probably now.

Michael J. Moore wrote this article for YES! Magazine.聽Michael is at the Washington State Reformatory and is author of聽Highway Twenty,聽After the Change聽and聽Secret Harbor,聽set聽for release in July.聽His work has appeared in various anthologies, journals, magazines, and newspapers and has been adapted for theater.聽聽

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