Essay No. 3

Fencing

One of the Federal Prison Camp Lexington Atwood’s few pleasures is walking up and down one of their service roads.  It separates two fields, home to ever-vigilant groundhogs.  As I walk west, I can train my eyes on fields bordered by tree lines, the evenness of those fields broken only by the occasional tree or bale of hay.  Facing west, I can almost pretend I am walking on the grounds of the nearby Trappist monastery, Gethsemani, which look and feel so similar.

Then I must round the end of the road and walk east.  The perspective and ambiance shift abruptly.  Now the field to my left is edged in part by the coils of razorwire which surround the adjacent FMC Lexington.  That prison is a medium-security federal medical center which treats male prisoners from all tiers of the prison system.  But while the wire obviously is intended to hamper any attempts by the men to escape, it only imperfectly thwarts attempts at romance between inmates of the two facilities.

I’ve already noted in this journal the resilience of the confined spirit that I have seen here, and I have written about the depth of real concern and compassion among the women.  No less persistent is the human drive for intimacy and affection, as well as the ability to fantasize connections and relationships that have no basis in fact or even possibility.

Both staff and inmates call it “fencing,” and many women risk administrative penalties and ultimately being transferred to the notorious county jail for the hope of some mutuality--if not affection, perhaps simple desire.  To grasp the significance of this risk, one needs to understand that the view through the razorwire is minimal, as is the view over the wire from the upper floors of the dormitory.  From my vantage point on the road, I can make out forms that are human, but I’d be hard pressed to know they are male, much less distinguish one from another.  But the would-be amorous persist, perhaps capitalizing on the indistinctness of the forms to project more easily their ideal features and personalities onto them.

A similar creative license must have informed a conversation attempted over the fence, which I recently overheard while working in the flower bed alongside the women’s dorm.  I am told that typically both parties use toilet paper tubes as little megaphones to better project their voices.  Even so, the exchange was  fractured with inaudible gaps, and consequently was incoherent and without substance.  Yet I heard clearly the longing in the woman’s voice, and I knew that already she had convinced herself that she’d had a real conversation with a loved one.  It is self-deception staggering in its obtuseness, but also endearing in its expressed vulnerability.

Margaret Knapke           

Prisoner # 89762-020

Federal Prison Camp Lexington Atwood

8 August 2000