Transcripts

IFDC ASIC – PHONETICS AND PHONOLOGY – Prof.
Isabel Montaña – WRITTEN INSIDE
Culture Desk
My Prison Cell: Learning to Hear on

a Cardboard Piano
By Demetrius Cunningham
December 26, 2016
Every time I got a new cellmate, I warned him, “Don’t be alarmed. I have a cardboard
piano that I play.”
ILLUSTRATION BY ELEANOR TAYLOR
I_n February, Jennifer Lackey, a philosophy professor at Northwestern
University, where I teach journalism, invited me to speak to a class she
teaches at the Stateville Correctional Center, a maximum-security prison an
hour outside of Chicago. Her students, fifteen men, are all serving long
sentences, mostly for violent crimes. Some will be at Stateville until they die.
I talked with the students about storytelling, and had them complete an
exercise in which they described their cells._
I was so taken by what they wrote that I suggested that they develop these
stories about the space, which, for some, had been home for twenty years.
Over the past ten months, I have worked with them from draft to draft to
draft. This process was not without obstacles. Sometimes, Jennifer couldn’t
return my marked-up drafts because the prison was on lockdown. One
student missed class for a month because, after surgery, he had to wear a
knee brace, which the prison considered a potential weapon. Another
student was transferred to a different prison. (I continued working with
him by mail and phone.) One despaired at my comments and edits, writing
to me that “this must be my last draft because clearly I’m incapable of
doing it correctly.” But with encouragement and gentle nudging they kept
going. Below is one of five of these stories that will appear on the site this
week.
—Alex Kotlowitz
Go
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IFDC ASIC – PHONETICS AND PHONOLOGY – Prof. Isabel Montaña – WRITTEN INSIDE
On my bottom bunk bed, I sat in deep thought. I had an unusual problem.

The prison choir that I sang in needed a piano player, and they needed one
quickly. I thought to myself, How could I teach myself to play? I had no
prior experience with the piano, but I can still remember running down the
hallways of my grandmother’s house as a boy. Every time I ran past her old
upright piano, I would slam all the keys at the same time. Sometimes in the
mornings before school, as I listened to cassette tapes of my favorite R. & B.
and gospel songs by Mary J. Blige and John P. Kee, I imagined myself
playing the piano. I sang in the church choir from the age of seven on. In the
sixth grade, I learned to play the xylophone. I had an uncle who played
piano professionally at Las Vegas casinos and on cruise ships. When he
came to visit, I sat in awe as he played our upright. Music has been my
constant companion. It’s like my DNA has tiny quarter notes infused into it.
One day while I was watching TV in my cell, I flipped past a show on BET
that highlighted famous musicians, including the gospel singer Andrae
Crouch, who described his first piano. It was made out of cardboard. I had
an idea that was literally out of the box.
The first moment I could, I searched for a cardboard box. I wandered by

cells, examining the garbage. I rummaged through every trash bag I could
find. I soon realized that it was tissue day. Every Tuesday, the institution
hands out hundreds of rolls of tissue, one roll per inmate. I knew that there
would be plenty of cardboard boxes around. I found a large empty box
abandoned at the end of the gallery. I tore off the top flaps and quickly went
back to my cell.
In the prison church, I had taken measurements of the keyboard, and I cut a
piece from the cardboard box. But it wasn’t long enough. I needed seventy-
six keys to mimic the prison’s piano. So I stapled two sections together. I
then took ten sheets of white typing paper and wrapped them around the
cardboard. To make keys, I used a case for a cassette tape to draw straight
lines. For the white keys, I used a black pen to outline them. For the black
keys, I cut small rectangles out of black construction paper. I attached the
keys with clear packing tape. Now my cardboard piano looked realistic, so
much so that an officer walking past doing count did a double take. He was
so taken aback with my piano that he walked straight into a wall. He asked
to see me play, which I did, and he laughed good-heartedly. Music, even
imaginary music, does that to people.
Now came the hard part. I had to somehow take the music in my head and
make it a reality. I asked my mother to send me some beginner’s piano
books. The first few weeks, I mainly focussed on scales. I got immensely
frustrated. The books that I had were too basic, and I only had access to the
real piano for one hour on Sundays. So I called home again and asked my
mother to send some professional books on chords, on harmony, and on
music theory. She also threw in a Piano for Dummies book, just for fun. I
studied these books day and night, carrying them everywhere I went: to the
yard, to the chow hall, and to choir practice. Someone in the choir gave me
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the nickname “Kirk Franklin.” Even the guards came to call me that, and
one guard asked me how she could get her son involved in music.
I positioned my practice space at the end of my bunk bed. I was fortunate to

have the bottom bunk, and so I used my small property box as a piano
bench. I folded my mattress on itself, and then placed the piano on the steel
bunk bed. For hours at a time, I would practice finger positions and how to
build chords. Sometimes, I would hum the sound of the keys as I tapped on
the cardboard. I had one cellie ask, only partly joking, “Do you need me to
call a psych doctor for you?” Every time I got a new cellmate I would warn
him, “Don’t be alarmed. I have a cardboard piano that I play.” I had one
cellie ask me to teach him to play. First, I showed him that music is alive and
always moving. But, when we sat down on our bunk beds to learn the
mechanics, he lacked the focus and the imagination to learn on the
cardboard piano. He lasted only a couple of weeks. I practiced for hours on
end, to the point where I developed calluses on my fingers. Every couple of
months, I needed to make a new piano because of the wear and tear from
my practice sessions. After going through five keyboards, I made a heavy-
duty keyboard by tripling the materials. It has lasted over five years.
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I was making progress. Every Sunday, I got to try what I’d learned on a real
piano, but I’d be so nervous that my hands would shake and I’d hit the
wrong keys. To hide my mistakes, I’d play softly and let the voices of the
choir cover it up. I preferred playing the cardboard piano in the privacy of
my cell.
Gospel music and most pop and R. & B. songs are infused with blues and
jazz. A whole new world of music opened up before me. I learned new
techniques and styles of music. I also created my own fingering positions,
and discovered the formulas and equations to many of my favorite songs.
Take, for instance, the song “Ribbon in the Sky,” by Stevie Wonder. This
song starts with a one, two, three-chord progression. Once I figured this out
I could use it in other keys. I felt like a musical chemist, experimenting with
all types of chord progressions.
I began this process with just one note on the real piano. The key of C was
my favorite. This is mainly because all the white keys belonged to the key of
C. You could never go wrong. Just hit the white keys. I would repeat the note
by humming it to myself. Then I would memorize it, and take it back to my
cell and build every combination. Through a process of elimination, the one
that worked I would memorize and learn it in every key. This process
enabled me to quickly locate and learn almost every chord in music. It also
enabled me to teach and create new songs for the choir quickly.
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3
By Françoise Mouly and Genevieve Bormes
I was recently transferred to Pinckneyville Correctional Center. The move

was unexpected. As soon as I arrived at the institution, I saw many familiar
faces from Stateville. They informed me that the church choir needed a
director and a piano player. I took both jobs. After I played the first church
service, I explained my unorthodox way of learning music. They got excited.
Now I sit in my cell, on a box next to my bunk bed, creating new music and
building cardboard pianos for the three men who have accepted the
challenge of the pedagogy of the cardboard piano.
Read the other stories in this series: “The Refuge of a Recluse,” by Marcos
Gray; “A War Against the Roaches,” by Oscar Parham; and “A Visit from
an Outsider,” by James Trent.
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Culture Desk
My Prison Cell: A War Against the

Roaches
By Oscar Parham
December 28, 2016
If it looked like a place where a roach could enter or flee, it was covered up. This was the beginning
of the end for the roaches in cell 956.
I_n February, Jennifer Lackey, a philosophy professor at Northwestern University,
where I teach journalism, invited me to speak to a class she teaches at the Stateville
Correctional Center, a maximum-security prison an hour outside of Chicago. Her
students, fifteen men, are all serving long sentences, mostly for violent crimes.
Some will be at Stateville until they die. I talked with the students about
storytelling, and had them complete an exercise in which they described their
cells._
I was so taken by what they wrote that I suggested that they develop these stories
about the space, which, for some, had been home for twenty years. Over the past ten
months, I have worked with them from draft to draft to draft. This process was not
without obstacles. Sometimes, Jennifer couldn’t return my marked-up drafts
because the prison was on lockdown. One student missed class for a month
because, after surgery, he had to wear a knee brace, which the prison considered a
potential weapon. Another student was transferred to a different prison. (I
continued working with him by mail and phone.) One despaired at my comments
and edits, writing to me that “this must be my last draft because clearly I’m
incapable of doing it correctly.” But with encouragement and gentle nudging they
kept going. Below is one of five of these stories that will appear on the site this
week.
—Alex Kotlowitz
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I knew something was up when I noticed two inmates standing in front of my cell
with all of their property. The officer called: “You and your cellie pack your
property—you’re moving to cell 956.”
“Man, I hate moving,” I recall thinking to myself. Right when I have one cell the
way I want it, I have to break in another.
While packing my property, I got an early heads-up on what I was in for. “Smiley,
Smiley,” my neighbor called. “Look at his bag.” He was pointing to the laundry bag
of one of the men waiting to move in to my cell. As I turned, I saw roaches oozing
out of the bag. It was the middle of the day, and sunlight broke through the layers of
dirt built up on the windows of the gallery. The roaches seemed accustomed to
hanging out in the light.
The other man waiting to move in was an older man named Pat. Pat was a white
man in his late forties or early fifties, with a face full of stubble. I knew him
casually from our time on the gallery. When he spoke, he slurred his words, as if he
were perpetually drunk.
“Pat,” I asked, “are the roaches real bad in your cell?”
“My cellie kept them as pets,” he responded. This was Pat’s way of telling me that
his cellie left food open around the cell, which gave the roaches no incentive to
leave.
The officer overseeing the move looked at the oozing bag with disgust. I made one
last plea. “Look, officer, I don’t have any roaches in this cell. If you put them in
here, you’ll just be infesting two cells.” I knew it was a long shot, but it was worth a
try. The officer shrugged, as if to let me know that it was out of his hands. So I
began moving my property down the gallery.
Upon reaching my new cell, I immediately spotted the problem. There was a two-
inch gap between the light fixture and the wall. Pat had already warned me that this
was where many of the roaches entered and exited.
I went to inspect the cell. I walked in and turned on the lights. Two dozen roaches
huddled in the middle of the floor between the sink-toilet combo and the bunkbeds.
It was as if they were having a town-hall meeting. It unnerved me at first, because
usually with light roaches scatter. But the roaches stood their ground.
It didn’t take long for me to start stomping on them like I was Bigfoot, so they
would understand that they weren’t welcome in the cell any longer. After killing the
town hall of roaches, I turned the light off. Two minutes later, I turned the lights
back on and there were at least ten more in the same spot. It was then that I knew I
was in for a fight.
Let me take a moment to shed some light, so to speak, on this war I was about to
undertake. To do so, we have to go back twenty-three years, to 1993, and Menard
Correctional Center, where I met a man I’ll call Fester.
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Back then, the whole prison was pretty much infested with roaches, so much so that
their presence had to be tolerated as normal, though measures were taken by those
who valued cleanliness to keep them down to a minimum. Fester, however, was
different. Fester was six feet tall and had to weigh close to four hundred pounds.
Fester lived off a steady diet of candy bars, junk food, and soda pop. He lived in
squalor and had poor hygiene and bad health. He had diabetes and was insulin-
dependent, and he was an alcoholic who guzzled all the hooch he could get his
hands on. Fester’s social life in prison revolved around one activity that was very
popular back then: gambling.
One day, when Fester came to the yard looking for a poker game, he approached the
table where I was playing chess to see if he could convince me and the guys to
change our focus. He smelled of urine and sour milk, but what blew my mind was
that, in his hair and beard, roaches crawled around. I pointed it out to him, thinking
maybe he wasn’t aware of them. “Hey, Fester, man, get those roaches out of your
hair,” I hollered. And he responded, “Oh, they ain’t hurtin’ nothing, we got an
understanding and we cool.”
I was about twenty-one at the time, still early in my bit. Fester was in his forties and
had been locked up for more than twenty years. In that moment, I realized that
Fester had totally given up on himself. It was also in that moment that I went to war
with everything that Fester represented. The loss of vigilance against the elements
of prison that subtly ask you to surrender your dignity. So, when I entered that cell,
I said to myself, “I’m not gonna let this beat me.”
We’re not allowed any kind of poison, for the obvious reasons, so I had to think
about how best to enter this fight. I had an idea. I asked a sympathetic officer if he
could get some plastic garbage bags and some clear tape. This was one of the rare
times where both cellies swapped cells. After moving into the cell, my old cellie
and I placed our books, folders, legal work, clothes, and food in these bags. We tied
them up tight so nothing could get in. The only thing that didn’t go into the bag
were our TVs, our radios, and our fans.
My plan was simple. I was going to remove every possible refuge for the roaches.
Wrapping up all of our property was only the first step. After that, I taped every
crack and crevice in the cell. If it looked like a place where a roach could enter or
flee, it was covered up. This was the beginning of the end for the roaches in cell
956.
When I looked under the bed, I found a nesting spot in one of the rusting metal
poles that supported our bunkbeds. I got on my stomach, crawled under the bunk,
and taped the pole. I also set up the prison version of a Roach Motel. Our version
was an open aluminum potato-chip bag, stood up against the wall. I put a banana
peel in the bag to get the roaches’ attention. I let it sit overnight. And in the
morning, when I opened the bag, at least ten roaches were trapped, unable to crawl
their way out because of the grease from the potato chips. I poured the contents of
the bag into the toilet, then repeated the process.
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They kept coming. Bailey, my cellie, preferred that I be the one smashing the
roaches. He didn’t like that crunch sound the roaches made when you smashed
them. He said it made his skin crawl.
One day, while watching TV, I came across what I would call a commando roach. It
was no bigger than the others, but its survival instincts were off the charts.
I caught him out of the corner of my eye. When I raised my hand, it dove into a
loose sheet on my bed. I quickly grabbed my sheet and flicked it, repulsed that the
roach was in my sheet. No roach. As I sat on the bunk, flustered, I saw movement
out of the corner of my eye. I looked at the back wall and saw it racing toward the
light fixture. I rose, and, before I could raise my hand, he dove again, this time
landing in the sink and scurrying down the drain.
As luck would have it, commando roach led me to the third nesting spot. When I
looked under the sink, I spotted five roaches running around—a couple were babies.
I assumed there must be a hole there, so I ran seven strands of tape from one end of
the sink-toilet combo to the other. Every day I checked under the sink. After a week
I was convinced they were gone.
It was a hard-fought two-month war. There were many nights when I didn’t get
much sleep, and in the immediate aftermath I was exhausted. I went from smashing
twenty roaches a day to ten; from ten roaches to five. Where I once refused to leave
an open bag of chips in the cell, I now began cooking pizzas (saltine crackers with
summer sausage, mozzarella cheese, ketchup, and thousand island dressing),
burritos, and bowl meals with ramen noodles, summer sausage, cheese, beans, and
rice, with Doritos.
Over the years, times have changed. I’m not in the roach-infested cell, and Bailey is
not my cellie anymore. After the war in H-cell 956, Bailey gave me the
nickname the Roach Inspector. He used it mockingly, but I took pride in that name.
Bailey never knew about Fester, or maybe he would’ve understood why I waged the
war that I did.
Read the other stories in this series: “Learning to Hear on a Cardboard Piano,” by
Demetrius Cunningham; “The Refuge of a Recluse,” by Marcos Gray; and “A Visit
from an Outsider,” by James Trent.
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Ep 3: On The Move... Again

March 28, 2017
8 MIN
Keara McGraw for WBEZ

“Pack your shit. You’re moving.” The officer stood outside my cell, number 1041. He was calling my name.
He held a handful of mail. I was hoping for a letter from my 18-year-old daughter, whom I had recently
gotten back in touch with after 12 years, or from my English pen pal who had helped reunite us. Instead,
the only thing the officer had for me was the disappointing news that I was being moved … again. Last I
counted, my numbers were 28 and 36: 28 cell changes, and 36 complete strangers I’ve been forced to
room with. “Did you hear me?” the officer asked.
“Pack my shit for what?” I responded nervously. “I just moved here three weeks ago.”
“I don’t know, but I’ll be back in 20 minutes,” the officer replied. “So have your shit packed and ready by
then."
Twenty minutes. I had twenty minutes to finish the Ramen noodle soup and cup of red Kool-Aid—though I’d
suddenly lost my appetite. Twenty minutes to take down the wet laundry hanging on a makeshift clothesline I’d
made from a torn sheet. Twenty minutes to untie my TV, which hangs from the air vent, as there are no shelves.
Twenty minutes to remove the bedding and roll up my thin mattress to take with me because the one in my next
cell may be stained or soiled. Twenty minutes to remove the small collage of photos of my daughter and my pen
pal taped to the wall. Twenty minutes to put the last 14 years of my life into two small boxes, slide them out of
the cell door and say goodbye to my cellmate.
“Pack your stuff. You’re moving.” Those are some of the most distressing words to hear in prison. A knot forms
in your stomach.
Your first thought is, “Why are they moving me? I get along with my cellmate, I’m not disruptive or belligerent
to staff, and I’m familiar with the people on the gallery.”
As you begin packing your entire existence into two small boxes—your worn sheets, your books, your walkman
cassette player, your headphones that work on only one side, all the things that keep you sane—anger creeps in.
“Man, why these guards keep fuckin’ with me?” you think to yourself. “Why won’t they just let me do my time
in peace?” Then Paranoia sets in. “Why are they targeting me?”
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Then comes the “what-ifs.” What if I don’t get along with my new cellmate? What if he doesn’t shower or clean
up after himself? What if he has a mental condition like schizophrenia or he’s a self-mutilator? What if our
religious beliefs differ or if he has none, and he uses that as a basis for conflict and argumentation? What if it’s
a friend of the victim in my case? You start to prepare yourself for the worst—for the possibility that you might
be forced to fight and end up going to segregation. The memories of past cellmates flash through your mind.
The one who didn’t bathe for the first week after he moved in—and might not have bathed at all if I hadn’t
asked him to. Or the one who would scream and shout random obscenities on the gallery for hours each day,
even when I was trying to sleep. And let’s not forget the heroin addict (yes, there are heroin addicts in prison)
who sometimes left bits of puke on the floor beside the toilet and who stole my address book, impersonated me
and told my family and friends that I wanted them to write to him.
The sick feeling comes again, stronger, as you don’t want to get hurt, nor do you want to hurt anyone. You’ve
been working so hard to avoid troublemakers, so hard to better yourself and your situation. All that could be
gone now…all because of a random move.
When you make it to your new cell, the tension is thick. It remains so for days to come as you get adjusted to
your new cellmate’s routine, habits, and tendencies. In the past I’ve had cellies that were devout Muslims; that
were quite judgmental and began most sentences with “Well, the Quran tells us…”, which took some getting
used to as a non-Muslim. They also prayed five times a day, during which time they expected me to just stop
whatever it was I was doing until they were done. I’ve also had cellies that coughed and sneezed without
covering their mouths and picked their noses and touched common fixtures like the light switch or sink buttons
without washing their hands first. I would have to go behind them all day with a rag and bottle of disinfectant
soap. Like those times before, both you and your new cellmate will spend several days feeling each other out,
all while you feel out the dozen other new faces of the gallery of cells.
As you enter the cell, you pay attention to whether or not he helps you move your property inside. When the
door shuts, you see if he gives you space to situate yourself. You introduce yourself and tell him things like,
“I’m really clean” and “I’m pretty laid back.” As he describes his habits, you gauge the appearance of his bed,
and how he keeps his property, to decipher whether or not he’s a slob.
You take whichever bunk is open, then arrange everything to allow for some semblance of comfort. You wait to
re-hang the collage of your loved ones, because you’re not yet sure if it’s okay to let your cellmate into your
life. Once everything is done, you lay in your bed and think, “Here we go again.”
10
Culture Desk
My Prison Cell: The Refuge of a

Recluse
By Marcos Gray
December 27, 2016
Despite my fellow-prisoners’ invitations to join them on the yard, I’ve politely declined.
cells._
week.
—Alex Kotlowitz
I’m a recluse. By definition, that implies I don’t like being around people. But the
oddity of this situation is that I don’t enjoy the feeling of being alone. It’s just that I
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feel as if I should be alone. I’m not educated enough to pinpoint the psychological
origins behind this, but I do know that, prior to imprisonment, I knew several
individuals who were murdered by so-called friends. So it just made sense to me to
adopt an isolationist strategy. I figured that if those closest to you would betray you,
then why allow anyone to get close? Or maybe it was because my biological father
made me feel that I wasn’t good enough for him because I’m darker than my
siblings. He once told me, “You probably ain’t mine.” I figured if I wasn’t good
enough for him, how could I be good enough for anyone else? I am most
comfortable being alone.
Being a recluse, especially in prison, does simplify things. For ten years, I didn’t
call my family. Nor did I write them. I felt that they were content with my
imprisonment. I’d ask myself, if they truly believed in my innocence then why were
they not trying to do everything (anything, really) to effectuate my release? I was
sixteen, so I confess that my behavior was immature. I thought I was punishing
them, but it had the opposite effect, of getting them accustomed to not
communicating with me. They simply blew away like grains of sand in a sandstorm.
I’ve pushed away fellow-prisoners, as well. Despite their invitations to join them on
the yard, I’ve politely declined. When I see other prisoners, I greet them with a
“What’s up, bro?” or “Hello, how are you doing?” But that’s the extent of my
interactions. It’s as if I’ve taken a vow of silence. Part of it is that I don’t want to
become infected by their gripes about the prison, which is mostly what the guys
speak of when they congregate. Don’t get me wrong—I understand their need to
express their disapproval of this place. But to do so incessantly is pointless.
Because of my reclusiveness, the complexion of each day mimics the one before it.
Every morning at 5:30 A.M., my cellmate, Antonio, wakes me. At 6, he heads out to
work in the barber shop, so this allows me to exercise without him being in the way
(or me being in his way, depending on how you view it). I construct an improvised
barbell by tying a sheet to my property box that’s filled with books; the sheet is tied
tightly around the edges so I can use it not only as a barbell but also as weight for
bench pressing (I lie atop my cellmate’s legal-property box, since I obviously don’t
have a bench). This is every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Tuesdays and
Thursdays, I do cardio and calisthenics. I jog in place and “jump rope” using an
imaginary rope. This kills ninety minutes each day.
After I exercise, I affix a bed sheet to the wall with a bunch of tape holding a string,
so that I can have the illusion of privacy as I wash up—a kind of “bird bath,”
really—in the sink. I then wash the clothes I exercised in and hang them from a fan,
purchased at commissary, by using my identification-card clip. At about 7:45 A.M.,
I’m ready to eat breakfast, which they serve in your cell and which consists of food
purchased at the commissary: usually grits, oatmeal, mackerel, or tuna. I eat lunches
and dinners in my cell, too, so I don’t have to deal with other inmates in the dining
room.
After breakfast, I read my Bible and often ask God to help me get out of the shell
I’ve placed myself in. After contending with God and myself, I devote the day to
whatever legal endeavor I’m undertaking, or an assignment from one of my classes
(which is the only time I have interactions with other inmates, outside of going out
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on a health-care pass or to the commissary). Antonio doesn’t return until 1:30 P.M.,
so I’m alone for a large portion of the day. He and I have been cellmates for nearly
a decade, so I guess it was inevitable that he and I would get close. He’s the only
person whom I trust, but even that is shaped by my lens of reclusiveness. It was he
who convinced me that I was sabotaging my relationship with my family, so I now
call them weekly.
Some people here think I’m aloof or that I think I’m better than them. I’ve been told
this by other inmates. Interestingly, a number of guards have told me that they
understood why I don’t leave my cell. One of them told me, “It’s too much B.S.
going on around the prison.” I didn’t respond because that’s not the reason I isolate
myself. It’s rather simple. I don’t believe I have anything to contribute, and I figure
that the others are probably better off without me.
I’ve contemplated going to the yard, or to lunch or dinner, but I can’t seem to do it.
I just don’t want to be around people. I keep remembering Antonio’s look of
disappointment as he sat on the sink with his feet on the lip of the industrialized
toilet. He said, “Marcos, you can’t keep ignoring how unhealthy it is for you to be
so secluded. You need to impart some of what God’s given you to these guys
around here.” I nodded in agreement, but I’d rather keep that to myself. I simply tell
him, “I am who I am—and who I’m not, I will never be.” And, as it stands, I am not
ready to forgo being a recluse, because, as miserable as it is, I am at least familiar
with the misery it entails.
Read the other stories in this series: “Learning to Hear on a Cardboard Piano,” by
Demetrius Cunningham; “A War Against the Roaches,” by Oscar Parham; and “A
Visit from an Outsider,” by James Trent.
13
Written Inside
Ep 5: A Friend
April 4, 2017
10 MIN

It is strange how life works, how I could come to be incarcerated but in the process also find true
friendship, something I’d never had before coming to prison.
When it was announced over the loud speaker, “Carlos, pack your property, you are moving,” little did I
know my life would change.
Moves within the institution are sometimes routine, other times created by both parties, meaning two
men request to be placed in the same cell. But this particular move I later found out was done by the
administration because both of us were given jobs. The administration often puts workers in a cell with
each other because both individuals have something to lose (in this case, our jobs), and so are unlikely to
cause any trouble. My new cellmate had been given a job in the chaplaincy department, and I had been
given a job in the dietary department.
At this point, I had been incarcerated for 21 years, so I had had quite a few cellmates. I’ve had some
reasonably good ones along with my share of difficult ones. But none did I get very close to. Purposefully
so. It’s important not to allow anyone to get close to you, especially a cellmate. I have witnessed others
who have allowed it to happen. More often than not, there are hidden motives behind the friendship. I’ve
seen times when personal information was stolen and family on the outside were being contacted by
strange people. You have to be careful.
Demetrius offered me the pick of bunkbeds, bottom or top. At that moment I knew we were a lot alike -
neither of us were caught up on who sleeps where. I took the bottom.
In the first few days, I learned a lot about Demetrius. He was a self-taught musician who was obsessed
with music. His constant humming took some getting used to, but I found it amusing. He directed the
prison choir, so I learned that his humming was his way of putting sound with the lyrics he was writing.
He would often point out the sounds around us such as the jingling of the officers’ keys. It was a kind of
music, he’d say. I learned early on that he was surely “touched,” but he made me smile.
14
He had built a cardboard keyboard that he played often. He would sit on his bunk, the cardboard
keyboard across his lap, his hands moving across the keys like it was the real deal. I would often mess
with him about me not being able to hear what he was playing. It was his thing, so I supported it.
Over time we got to know each other. Trust is a rare find here, but we had it.
Demetrius would laugh at things that would make others mad. Sometimes it bothered me - but as time
went on and we got closer, I realized that some of Demetrius’s over-the-top laughter came from his
discomfort in the moment. I thought of it as a nervous tic. Once in the visiting room, he noticed an elderly
woman’s wig which sat on her head backwards. Later, in telling the story he couldn’t stop laughing. I
remember a guy here slipped on a sheet of ice and Demetrius burst out in laughter. All I could think of at
that moment was “damn, this may be a problem”. But he was just uncomfortable with the situation and
meant no harm.
He would tease me about my meticulousness. In all my years of incarceration, no one had pointed this out
to me, how I needed to place things in the cell in the same spot. I found later that Demetrius would
purposely move stuff around - cups, bowls, gym shoes - just to watch me quietly put the item back in its
right place. He would laugh and call my compulsive nature “a thing”. “That’s your thing,” he would say,
laughing in his usual manner, loudly and out of control. I could only smile. Demetrius was high-spirited
and a jokester. He would tease me, calling me a “crank”. A “crank” is any individual that refuses to listen
to reason.
During our time together, we experienced happy days and some days of sorrow. I had a cousin and a
couple of aunts pass. His grandmother passed, too. Those were hard days for us both, but we leaned on
each other. I believe just the comfort of having the other to talk to, of having someone to listen got us
through those times.
We were of different faiths. He is Christian, I am Muslim. We talked about religion some, but we both
understood that friendships have been torn apart here over religion, so we came to respect each other’s
faith. And we learned from one another. We shared everything from cosmetic items to food, even clothes.
I once needed a new pair of pants - what we call “visiting pants”. I had grown out of mine. He lent me his,
and later said I could have them.
We made a point of eating together at least once a week in our cell. He made an incredible bean, rice, and
cheese burrito with this delicious red sauce. He knew I didn’t eat meat, so he was always mindful of this
when he prepared meals.
I was the one who found out he was leaving for another prison. I had to break the news to him. He
seemed shocked. He asked, “How do you know? Are you sure?” All I could say was, “The source is good.”
We both knew transfer day was on Wednesdays, so every day from that point on we ate more meals
together, laughed even more (which I didn’t think was possible), and just appreciated the moments.
It was a Monday morning when the officer came to the cell and told Demetrius to pack his property.
The next morning around 3:30 A.M., an officer came to get him. I jumped out of bed. We exchanged
addresses for our families since we wouldn’t be able to write each other directly. We gave each other an
embrace, and I gave him some shorts to put under his jumpsuit. And he was gone...
I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I stayed up the rest of the night and cleaned the cell. I didn’t cry, but I felt
the void. Life is funny like that, people come into our lives for reasons that feel arbitrary. I believe
15
Demetrius is a lifetime brother. But I may never see him again. I have a life sentence and if nothing
changes, this is my reality. I need to stop reminiscing. I’ll soon have a new cellmate...
16
Culture Desk
My Prison Cell: A Place Kept

Compulsively Clean
By Ramon Delgado
December 30, 2016
The other inmates on the gallery tease me by calling me Mr. Clean. It’s not unusual for me to wipe
down the cell bars or the floor two or three times a day.
cells._
week.
—Alex Kotlowitz
17
It’s not uncommon for me to receive a compliment from other inmates who take
notice of how neat and organized I keep my cell. I love cleaning. Maybe a little too
much.
I’ve been cleaning practically all my life. My mother demanded it from us. I can
remember the day my mother put a mop in my hands. I was just six years old. We
were living on the second floor, in the back end of a four-unit apartment building.
There were five of us in a two-bedroom apartment. While my mother was showing
me how to hold the mop handle—one hand at the top of the mop stick and the other
in the middle—and how to maneuver it across the floor, my older brother and
younger sister were each busy with a small rag in their hands, wiping dust off the
few pieces of furniture we owned. This is how we cleaned our house every Saturday
morning. So I come by my compulsion honestly.
Everything in prison is about routine. I’m an early riser. I like to wake up at five
every morning, while it’s still dark outside and only the dim lights of the gallery
illuminate my cell. The first thing I do is remove my clean underwear off the
clothesline—a strip of torn sheet—that I have tightly stretched from post to post,
concealed beneath the bottom of the top bunk. I’m referring to the boxers I
purchased at the prison commissary, at four dollars and eighty cents for a single
pair. I then brush my teeth and wash my face. Before drinking my first cup of
coffee, I like to get my cell in compliance. In Illinois, every prison facility issues
each inmate a large personal-property box and a small correspondence box. Before
leaving the cell, an inmate is expected to put away his property, with the exception
of a few items such as his television, small radio, a Bible or Holy Koran, and one
pair of shoes. Anything left outside his property box can be considered contraband
and confiscated by prison officials for noncompliance.
Since I wake up so early, I have to be careful not to make too much noise and
disturb my cellmate, who is still asleep. At six feet four and three hundred pounds, I
need to navigate our cell carefully. My cellmate thinks I’m a little off-kilter with all
the cleaning I do, but he’s an amicable fellow and, honestly, I think he appreciates
having someone keep the cell clean. It’s like having a maid. First, I scrub the sink
and commode unit, using a small hand towel and an industrial concentrated liquid
soap normally used for washing dirty trays. I obtained it from a friend through his
detail assignment in the inmate kitchen. Then, quietly and methodically, I strip my
bed and, with a damp towel, gently wipe the mattress. When I make my bed, I tuck
in the bedsheet tightly around the edges of the mattress, military-style, so tight that
you can bounce a coin off the taut sheet. Carefully, I’ll place the dark-blue wool
blanket and two extra white bedsheets, all neatly folded, underneath the pillow.
Beneath the steel sink and commode, I keep a bath towel spread open across the
floor, which I use as a floor rag. When I’m done making my bunk, I’ll flush the
toilet once and then dip the floor rag inside the commode with a squirt of liquid
soap and stir it until it forms into lather. I use it to scrub the inside of the toilet.
Next, I wipe the floor of the cell. After washing my hands, it’s time for that hot cup
of coffee and planning for the day ahead. Usually, my cellmate will still be asleep
and won’t be up until much later in the morning. I’ve been fortunate to have a
cellmate who cleans up after himself, and to an extent mimics my behavior.
18
Whatever plans I make for the day will depend on the day of the week. One thing is
for sure: whether I'm scheduled to go to the law library, yard, or gym, it won’t be
long before I’m back in the cell, usually two hours later, and back to cleaning again.
Living on the first floor, I’m always battling the dust and dirt that descends from the
four galleries above me. It’s not unusual for me to wipe down the cell bars or the
floor two or three times a day. Every afternoon, I routinely remove the two
correspondence boxes and shoes from the front of the cell so I can wipe the cell
bars and the floor. Just like early every morning, I’ll scrub the toilet and the entire
unit. There are days when I’m a little more thorough with my cleaning routine than
others. I wash my underwear every day in the sink and hang dry them on the
clothesline. At night, before bed, I’ll wipe the floor and clean the sink unit one more
time. Some people think I’m obsessive, and I suppose I am. The other inmates on
the gallery tease me by calling me Mr. Clean. But cleaning is a way for me to feel
like I have some control over my life. I need that to allay my anxiety, as I continue
to fight my case in the courts, trying to find my way back home.
19
Written Inside
Ep 7: What Isn't Here

April 11, 2017
7 MIN

My cell is notable for what is not there rather than what is.
I don’t have a glass mirror. I have not seen a true reflection of myself in five years. The plastic mirrors
sold in prison are small, 5 x 4 inches, and distort and cloud one’s appearance. I normally cut my own hair,
but every few years I go to the prison’s barber shop. On this last occasion in the shop’s glass mirror, I
noticed for the first time some gray hair and a few deep wrinkles around my eyes.
My cell is without privacy. My cell happens to be located by the door that leads into the cell house, and so at a
wood desk just outside, a guard there can see everything I do. So when I use the toilet or wash up, I take a sheet
from my bed and use it as a curtain. I tuck one end under my mattress on the top bunk, and tie the other end to a
hook I’ve pasted to the wall. Even though this curtain is technically against prison rules, I take the chance. Most
guards who sit outside my cell are women, and I’m sure they don’t care to see me naked, so they allow the
make-shift curtain.
My cell is without furniture. I have neither a table nor a chair. When you first arrive in prison, you’re
given two hard plastic boxes in which you can store your belongings. One is called a legal box. You are
only allowed to place papers and books in it. The other box is much larger. In there I store food I’ve
purchased at the commissary— along with my clothes cosmetics and my art supplies. I use the smaller
box as a stool. The large box I use as a table. I place my plastic mirror on it while shaving. I play chess
with my cellmate on it. I also use it to place my typewriter and T.V.
My cell is without any kitchen appliances. I don’t have a stove or a hot plate or a microwave, yet much of
the food sold in the commissary—refried beans, rice, instant oatmeal, and ramen noodles—requires hot
water. To heat water, I make what’s called a prison stinger. The prison used to sell factory-made stingers,
but some inmates in anger would throw hot water on guards. The prison discontinued selling them years
ago. My homemade device consists of two metal paper clips, an extension cord, and a plastic drink
pitcher. I place a paperclip in each hole of the extension cord and stick the ends of the clips in the pitcher.
Within ten minutes, the water boils heating the water in the plastic bag. I also don’t have a refrigerator.
To keep things cold, like pop or a carton of milk, I place the items in the cool water of the toilet bowl.
20
Needless to say, you to need to wash the can or carton really good before drinking. It took me 15 years to
finally succumb and begin using this refrigeration method.
My cell is without air conditioning. In the summer months, it becomes like an oven. The temperature
outside will be 95 degrees, but in my cell the temperature is 105. I only know this because a thermometer
hangs next to my cell door. To stay cool, you move as little as possible and parade around in your
underwear.
The walls of my cell are without color. Along with the rest of the prison, they’re painted a pale gray. We
can’t place family pictures or artwork on the walls.
My cell is without space. I constantly bump into my cellmate. I’ve gotten into a few fights because of it.
Once I accidentally kicked my cellmate in his head while getting off the top bunk. He became enraged and
pulled me off my bed. We fought like dogs. There’s not enough space for both of us to walk around at the
same time. I must lie in my bed until he is finished washing up, and he must do the same. The length of my
cell is 9 feet long. I know this because I walk it 50 times a day to stay in shape.
My cell is without quiet. All day inmates yell, guards shout orders, guard radios blast. Inmates play music
on small stereos or their televisions to full volume. This goes on all night as well. On occasion, I plug my
ears with toilet paper so I can sleep. Basketball season is particularly hard because inmates up and down
the gallery are cheering on their teams on T.V.
My cell is without a window. I can’t see a sunrise or a sunset or a star or the moon.
My cell is without a criminal. I’m now 61. The young ruffian who came into this cell ready to take on the
world died a long time ago.
Written Inside is a podcast about life inside a maximum-security prison cell. Adapted from essays written
at Stateville Correctional Center near Chicago, these intimate stories speak to the everyday experience of
being incarcerated. William Jones' story was voiced by Chicago actor Cedric Young. Created by journalist
Alex Kotlowitz and produced by WBEZ Chicago's Colin McNulty.
21
Culture Desk
My Prison Cell: A Visit from an Outsider

By James Trent
December 29, 2016
The bird perched for a moment on the bars. Its beak was bright yellow. Even its brown plumage, amid all the
prison gray, seemed colorful.
I_n February, Jennifer Lackey, a philosophy professor at Northwestern University, where I teach journalism,
invited me to speak to a class she teaches at the Stateville Correctional Center, a maximum-security prison an
hour outside of Chicago. Her students, fifteen men, are all serving long sentences, mostly for violent crimes.
Some will be at Stateville until they die. I talked with the students about storytelling, and had them complete an
exercise in which they described their cells._
I was so taken by what they wrote that I suggested that they develop these stories about the space, which, for
some, had been home for twenty years. Over the past ten months, I have worked with them from draft to draft to
draft. This process was not without obstacles. Sometimes, Jennifer couldn’t return my marked-up drafts because
the prison was on lockdown. One student missed class for a month because, after surgery, he had to wear a
knee brace, which the prison considered a potential weapon. Another student was transferred to a different
prison. (I continued working with him by mail and phone.) One despaired at my comments and edits, writing to
me that “this must be my last draft because clearly I’m incapable of doing it correctly.” But with
encouragement and gentle nudging they kept going. Below is one of five of these stories that will appear on the
site this week.
—Alex Kotlowitz
After a long day of landscaping work, I walked into the cell house and stood outside my cell, waiting for the
gallery officer to let me in. Leaning against the bars, I noticed something moving in the back of the cell. I
couldn’t tell what it was because it was hiding behind the steel bunk bed.
When the officer opened the door, I walked straight to the back and moved a laundry bag from the wall. To my
surprise, it was a bird, a robin or wren—I’m not sure. I’m six feet seven and three hundred pounds, and when
the bird caught sight of me it undoubtedly feared for its life. It scurried away, taking cover under the bunk bed.
Its little legs moved so fast that it looked like the Roadrunner character. It found safety between two gray
property boxes. I couldn’t help but laugh at its cartoonish ways. I lay down on the cold concrete floor and
reached under the bed to grab it, but it hopped out of my reach. As I lay on the floor, it made its way to the front
of the cell and jumped on a slot between the bars. It perched for a moment there. I sat up and admired its beauty.
Its beak was bright yellow. Even its brown plumage, amid all the prison gray, seemed colorful. Sitting on the
22
bars, it no longer seemed afraid. It barely moved; just its head swivelled from left to right and back again. It
seemed so delicate. Its little black eyes were no longer looking at me. Instead, it appeared to be trying to figure
out which direction to fly. I hoped it would find its way out of the building, so I waved my hand, shooing it
toward the door, but it flew further into the cell house.
For a few minutes, I felt like I was somewhere else. It was a small crack in a routine that sets my life every day.
My encounter with the bird brought a rare moment of pure joy, and so I’ve held on to this small memory. Ten
years later, it still makes me smile.
Read the other stories in this series: “Learning to Hear on a Cardboard Piano,” by Demetrius Cunningham;
“The Refuge of a Recluse,” by Marcos Gray; “A War Against the Roaches,” by Oscar Parham.
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IFDC ASIC – PHONETICS AND PHONOLOGY – Prof.

Isabel Montaña – WRITTEN INSIDE

My Prison Cell: Learning to Hear on

On my bottom bunk bed, I sat in deep thought. I had an unusual problem.

The first moment I could, I searched for a cardboard box. I wandered by

I positioned my practice space at the end of my bunk bed. I was fortunate to

The High Stakes of the Trump Midterms

A Conversation with Jaime Hernandez About His New Graphic Novel

By Françoise Mouly and Genevieve Bormes

I was recently transferred to Pinckneyville Correctional Center. The move

My Prison Cell: A War Against the

“Pat,” I asked, “are the roaches real bad in your cell?”

Ep 3: On The Move... Again

Keara McGraw for WBEZ

My Prison Cell: The Refuge of a

Keara McGraw for WBEZ

My Prison Cell: A Place Kept

Ep 7: What Isn't Here

Keara McGraw for WBEZ

My Prison Cell: A Visit from an Outsider

December 29, 2016

ILLUSTRATION BY ELEANOR TAYLOR

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