The Waiting

When I first began my incarceration, I knew I would not get any visitors. Of all the supposed friends and associates who promised to stand by me at my sentencing, no one showed up. As far as my family is concerned, I don't exist.

Three years later I was moved to a medium security unit with an open yard where I could read under a tree or just enjoy the green grass and a blue sky. On my second day there, my celly started getting dressed up for a visit with his family. I tried to ignore him by going outside. However, the outside visitation area was in clear view from the shade of my favorite tree. Soon my celly and his family were waving to me, not realizing the affect of their good humor.

Each Saturday morning after breakfast, three men gathered near the fence where they could look across to the visitors' parking lot. Shortly before 8 o'clock, cars, vans, and trucks began to arrive. Visitors lined up outside the gate to be checked for weapons and contraband. Inmates lined up near the visitation area to be strip-searched. The three men remained near the fence.

Just at 8, a shiny new sedan pulled into the parking lot. One of the three smiled and waved excitedly as his father, mother, and siblings emerged from the car. He quickly made his way to the strip room and was soon smothered in hugs and kisses.

Half an hour later a beat-up old pickup pulled into the lot and parked at the edge nearest to our unit. One of the two remaining inmates near the fence watched anxiously as his young wife stepped from the pickup carrying their baby. Not yet 18, and with no family to act as escort, she could not enter the prison to visit. She held the baby high, waving its small arm. She never stayed long. They both knew that if the guards saw them she would be forced to leave, and he would be given a write-up.

The inmate father watched as the pickup disappeared around a corner. Then he turned, wiped his face, steeled himself, and returned to his cell as tough as anyone there. It's not healthy to be seen crying in prison.

The third inmate remained, watching for the ones who had promised to come. He was still waiting when we were called back to our cells for noon count. Once again he knew the loneliness of rejection and broken promises. The next weekend he would again stand and watch, hoping.

I could not admit even to myself that I was jealous of the man who received a visit. In time I learned to ignore the visitation area and concentrate on watching the ants make trails in the dirt as they battled over crumbs of bread I took from the chowhall to feed to the birds.

BUT VISITATION is not the only source of outside contact for inmates. Groups of volunteers from churches and other organizations come into the prisons to hold services and meetings. One group brought in speakers: musicians, writers, teachers, and community service leaders. Through them I had my first informal contact with the outside in almost four years.

After only a few weeks, I began to look forward to the weekly meetings with great excitement. I cherished the few minutes each week of casual conversation with the volunteers.

Then disaster struck. Members of the group, along with numerous others from their church and the community, attended a rally protesting certain prison policies. Three days later they received letters notifying them that they were no longer welcome as a group at the prison. Of course, the prison official denied any connection between the rally and the letters.

I felt the loss more than I could have possibly anticipated. Not that I didn't continue to have access to other groups: Bible study, church services, AA, and NA. But it wasn't the same. I found myself back under a tree watching others watch the parking lot. I almost regretted ever attending the meetings.

I didn't have long to feel sorry for myself. I soon was moved to a minimum-security unit, with the prospect of a job to keep my mind active and off the outside world. One week later, visitation forms came by mail from a lady in the now-disbanded volunteer group. We had spoken together for only a few minutes at a couple of the meetings, but the memory of her smiles grew to a desire for a real one-to-one visit. I submitted the papers, not sure I really expected her to come.

TWO WEEKS LATER, as I stood in line for lunch, my name was called over the PA system. "Report to the yard office. You have a visitor." My heart began to beat wildly; my mouth was as dry as the desert around me. Should I take time to go change shirts? In the back of my mind I feared she might leave. Someone pushed me, "What are you waiting for? Go on, you have a visitor." I went as I was.

At the visitation strip room, I discovered that I could not go in wearing a T-shirt, nor a watch or belt, and no way could I carry my nonprescription hay fever medicine. I would have to return to my cell to put on a chambray shirt and rid myself of contraband. I wanted to beg to be let in as I was. I wanted to run. I walked fast.

After changing clothes, I stopped by the bathroom. A look in the mirror reminded me that I needed to shave as well as brush my teeth and comb my hair. More time lost. The 30 minutes that passed from the time I heard my name called until I returned to visitation seemed like a very busy dream in which I was trying to move through Jell-O.

At last, a cursory pat down and I was admitted. I feared that I would not recognize the lady or that she had left. Then our eyes met. I took a big breath, relieved, then made my way across the room where she waited to hug me.

For a while I was unable to concentrate on my visitor or our conversation. I looked around the room at what everyone else was doing. The sound of children laughing mixed with the low voices of love tugged my ears, distracting me. I longed for the intimacy of family.

After a while everyone except my visitor seemed to disappear. We had egg rolls and bagels with cream cheese washed down by Dr. Pepper, followed by hot blueberry muffins, all from vending machines. It was as much of a treat as if we had been served lobster and a fine white wine. We talked about the disbanded group, our families, the world in general; none of it mattered. What mattered was that someone actually cared enough to come visit me. In the end I found the intimacy of a friend.

I've been moved again. This prison unit is too far for my aging lady friend to come visit. When I feel down and lonely, I look back on that first visit to re-experience the joy I felt then. My friend tells me that she too misses the blessings she received from our visits. In some ways I feel lucky that the visitation area here is where I can not be reminded of the visits that I have no reason to expect.

RAYMOND E. WILLIAMS is in prison in Arizona. He is a writer of nonfiction and poetry. Raymond E. Williams #91665, Arizona State Prison Complex, Eyman/Cook Unit/5-B-29, P.O. Box 3200, Florence, AZ 85232-3200.