inside out

Every now and then my job lands me in prison. It's usually a fairly grim affair, the heaving doors and endless keys leaving me gasping for fresh air when I finally leave the razor wire borders of those planets of despair.

Today was my first jaunt in a minimum security prison. To understand what this means, consider replacing 'security' with 'brutality'. The more security a prison has, the more brutalised the inmates are.

From this minimum brutality prison, the guys can see the mountains. They work on farms, in workshops. This place actually made me feel good when I was there. I didn't have to leave my soul locked in my car, it was free to come with me.

One guy, who had recently moved there after 20 years in a maximum facility prison, with 23 hours a day in his cell and manacles on for his outside hour, couldn't do much more than stand really still. I recognised his face from the media. Him and several other guys, though I couldn't put my finger on whether they were gangland guys, or downfallen businessmen, or famous murderers nearing their parole hearing. I guess it doesn't really matter.

So many of our lost boys wind up in prisons, for so many reasons. Maximum brutality usually means guys come out more fucked up and angry and violent than when they went in. Being in a prison minimum brutality environment like this teaches them these guys, many for the first time, how to communicate. Sometimes, they keep a list of all the names of all the children who call them 'dad'. Kylie Jaden Emma Cameron Leon Sam Mira Tahli Jack... that's what really gets them talking.

Speaking of names, there was a prisoner in there listed as Starbuck, but I never thought to ask if it was his real name or call sign.