Nov 11, 2018
"Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent. Big men are often firm in the belief that violence is the correct way of deciding a dispute, especially if they are facing small men. People with guns are similarly firm in that belief especially if facing unarmed people. A mob believes in violence when facing an individual. In short, if violence seems as though it is on your side, then you like it. Violence usually brings about the victory of the unjust and barbaric." Isaac Asimov
On September 2, 2018 I awoke to this thought running through my head, "you are safe in the hands of the Living God." Over the next two days I meditated upon this. On September 4th I awoke to an institutional lockdown. Our kitchen crew had decided to join the nationwide prison protest. Here in Georgia we are paid for the work we do with an extra packout, i.e., a sandwich and a fruit, and that not always. We work for private companies, the state, the prison industrial complex, and who knows what else this greedy octopus has it's greedy tentacles into. It is a multi-billion dollar scam.
The kitchen crew works hard in a difficult and pest infested environment. The protest was calling for some financial compensation and a better work environment. They work harder and longer than any job here. This was a sit down/no show/no violence protest.
On a lockdown, the food is brought to your dorm. I am in an open dorm with 74 other men. We had been woken for breakfast at 4:30 am. It arrived at 10:30 am. That coincided with the CERT Team macing E and F buildings. That is where the kitchen crew was housed. The mace wafted into O building and did not enhance the flavor of our breakfast.
At 11 am, the tactical squad shows up, about 20 of them marching in true jack boot syncronization, slapping their thighs and banging their clubs on their shields. They are decked out in the latest riot fashion ensemble. At noon they storm F building. Flashbangs, pepper guns, all the toys. No resistance was offered, but plenty of violence was given. Many men are hand cuffed and hauled away. Then E building is stormed in identical fashion. The rest of the week was taken up with transferring those near do wells to other camps and prisons. We were on lockdown for 12 days. Peanut butter sandwiches, 3 times a day except Friday, Saturday and Sunday when we only receive two meals per day. I have no idea why that is.
The only violence that was evidenced here was perpetrated by the Administration and the private company personnel contracted to bust up our little soiree.
Towards the end of the lockdown, the tactical squad raided our dorm for the complimentary shakedown. This is how this dance is done. They storm in twenty deep, yelling: OFF THE BEDS! Shorts and T-shirts! By your bunks! We line up 4 or 5 in line in front of the lockers. One at a time we strip down. Open your mouth. Lift your package. Move it right. Now left. Turn around, squat and cough. If this was not degrading enough, there are women present.
We put our t-shirts and shorts on and we are paraded into the day room where we stand in ranks, facing the wall while our domicile is ransacked. Dogs are searching for whatever they are trained to find. Cell phones, drugs, Abram tanks, Intercontinental ballistic missiles. Although how contraband makes it's way into here is certainly a mystery. It ain't like we can sign out at the front gate and hit the local Walmart parking lot for our favorite pharmacist. Surely Satan's own Imps must bring that stuff in.
It takes them an hour or so to destroy our living and sleeping area. This particular shakedown seemed to be a hassle. I had three contraband items they found but left. 2 felt markers and a sewing needle, but they threw my food away. Others had similar experience. Candy bars disappeared, as other commissary items.
We had all kinds of visitors during our lockdown, that listened very intently to our grievances. There were lots of head shaking and note taking and many broken things were repaired. They told us to let them know when things get bad, but the real message was received by gas and clubs.
Do not buck [crossed out: the] our system.