On the Inside Looking Out: Imprisoned During a Pandemic

 By Chad Hensley 10.2020

In prison, change of any kind—good or bad—is unwelcome. It's important to keep all activities and procedures on a strict schedule. To do otherwise leads to confusion, which can make inmates restless.

Routine allows time to pass by quickly, making a sentence easier to serve. When routines are disrupted, prisoners can become rowdy, at times even violent. Fortunately, State Farm Correctional Center in Powhatan County has done an adequate job of maintaining routine despite a disruption in routine caused by the COVID-19 pandemic. 

I speak from experience, having just been released from the Virginia penal system after serving a 71-month sentence.

Not long after the State Farm went on lockdown mode, anxieties rose rapidly. There were so many unknowns about this novel coronavirus. Will it reach us, and if so, when?  

Health and sanitation became top priorities for everyone. Some of my fellow inmates let other offenders know in no uncertain terms that the bathroom in our pod be kept immaculate at all times. I'd heard threats made, although not towards anyone in particular. If someone was caught making a mess in the bathroom and not cleaning it up immediately, they would be dealt with in the harshest manner conceivable. Although these ultimatums were made, no one ever acted on them.

The staff had given us appropriate tools to keep our pods clean. Each unit was issued a bucket of disinfectant along with clean rags so we could wipe down surfaces every day. I used a clean sock over the phone whenever I made a call to ensure my safety and the safety of others.

Immediately after lockdown, we were given "sneeze guards"—bright orange polyester face masks with a single strap. These “guards” prevented the airborne virus from passing through the fabric and were preferred by inmates because they could be worn around the neck when not in use. Later, we were given PPE masks secured around the ears. These masks worked fine, but were worn less frequently than the sneeze guards.

We were required to wear these masks whenever we were outside the "bunk area", which is where we slept. In the "day room"—common areas that contain phones, the main TV, a pool table and the bathroom—we had to wear masks at all times.

This seemed somewhat counterproductive to me because there is absolutely no physical barrier whatsoever between these two areas,

Unit staff rarely enforced this rule. When we left the building, however, wearing a face mask at all times was compulsory. We were only permitted to leave the building when we went to commissary or to medical. Kitchen and yard workers left the unit almost every day. We were not required to wear masks in the rear recreation yard, although we had to do so when in the main yard.

The staff was required to wear masks at all times. They were, after all, out in the world at large and had the potential of infecting us with this rapidly spreading virus. They wore a range of masks from the N-95s recommended by the CDC and NIH, to simple bandanas.

Despites these precautions, a few months ago the virus struck our facility, infecting five inmates, two in one building, three in another. None of those infected was in my pod. The five men who tested positive for the novel coronavirus were quarantined in a building that had been prepared for this eventuality.

I have not heard more about these men since, but assume they are healthy now. We learned of the outbreak during a visit from National Guardsmen who tested us with nasal swabs. I took the opportunity to thank them for their service.

It is not lost on me how lucky we were that they arrived in time to detect the infection before it spread. Having heard about other Virginia prisons where there were deaths makes me very grateful that we were spared.

But that could change at any time, which is why vigilant testing and contact tracing, along with adhering to CDC protocols is an absolute must.

There are high-risk men imprisoned in Virginia. Some of them are my friends and they know they are particularly are vulnerable to contracting COVID-19.

 "I ain't trying to catch this s**t and die,” a 76-year old incarcerated friend told me. ”I'm about to get out. I've been through enough not to get killed by something I can't fight."

He isn't the only one. A close friend of mine, fortunately recently released, is battling bone cancer. While serving time at the State Farm, he was extremely anxious about contracting the virus. At the time, he was receiving chemotherapy, which compromised his immune system.

Another friend of mine has only one lung. Before the pandemic struck he complained about people burning things in the microwave, which would leave a charred smell in the air. As far as he knows his immune system is not compromised, but how he'd handle Covid-19 weighed heavily on his mind. "There's only one way to find out," he told me.

My own paranoia would get the better of me at times. I shuddered with anxiety whenever I heard somebody coughing repeatedly at night. I always told myself that worrying never helps anything, but it’s a hard feeling to fight.

Many of us imprisoned at the State Farm were more concerned about the health of our families on the outside than we were about ours. The majority of men incarcerated with me were fathers, some with children. 

"My family visits each other a lot," one father said. "One kid will hang with my parents and might give it to them, then my parents will give it to the next kid who visits, and so on. I’m very worried. I get out in twenty days. I hope they don't get infected. It's tough getting on the phone to talk to them. Sometimes I worry that I'm going to have to fight someone in order to get a spot on the phone so I can talk to my family."

Whenever I called my own family, I braced myself for the news that someone had been infected. I have three grandparents in their eighties, and two parents in their fifties, both of whom smoke. I always reminded them to stay safe whenever they go out by wearing a mask and social distancing. Fortunately, they were all following the protocols recommended by CDC.

For the most part, inmates keep their personal anxieties private. To the casual observer, things may seem normal at the State Farm. Gripes of bad food, petty staff, and irksome offenders were pervasive, but that’s to be expected. Even when the BLM protests erupted this past summer, opinions were kept close to the chest. No conflict regarding political beliefs ever arose, which was the case even before the pandemic and protests. But beneath that surface of calm, there were deep currents of fear and anxiety over COVID-19.

I think often about inmates still incarcerated, and I can keenly feel the anxiety that hovers over them day in and day out. Can feel it as if I were still on the inside looking out.