June 20, 2008

Dear Lourdes,
Okay, I’ll get right to it, my adventure in the medical clinic holding cage:
The moment I entered the medical clinic I could see that something was awry. The holding tank is crammed with folks (as the officer is telling me to go in) and one guy is yelling, “That’s enough, that’s enough! The limit is ten idiot, look at the wall” (pointing to the 10 person limit sign per the fire department). Volunteers are then asked to go outside and wait, the tank empties by almost half.
I greet the fellas I know and begin reading a 1996 article series by the late San Jose Mercury News staff writer Gary Webb about the CIA being involved in the crack epidemic. Before I could finish the first paragraph, a nurse wheels in a crying, snotty-nosed man with bandages about his ear. He’s mumbling about the pain he suffering from and the rest of the tank erupts in a verbal riot.
“Don’t bring him back in here, man!” a voice behind me yells. Another, shouts, “Why isn’t he in the hospital yet? He’s been hollarin’ for help for hours!”
The man in pain begins to scream, “Help me, help me! It’s killin’ me man, help me!” The head nurse assures him she’s doing the best she can. The man in pain flops out of the wheelchair and starts kicking the holding tank walls, screaming at the top of his lungs about his pain. The nurse offers him some narcotic-strength pain medication, but he either can’t hear her for his own noise or he’s ignoring her.
The rest of the fellas are yelling that he needs help. Apparently he’s been in pain for quite a while. The sergeant is called and he orders “Everybody out!” Mind you, we’re on lockdown and movement is supposed to be restricted. Nevertheless, we’re all ushered out and the man in pain is counseled. As I stepped out I could hear the sergeant saying; “Look man; you’ve gotta help us help you.”
I then attempt to find a quiet spot along the wall and get back to my article after a quick, silent prayer for the guy. I feel bad that we can’t help him, but under the circumstances you just have to sit back and hope they’re treating him right. I do know, usually, if a man merely complains of chest pains he is more times than not ferried to the main infirmary, if not an outside hospital immediately afterward.
I wondered why this guy wasn’t treated with the same urgency. But I don’t like to judge the appearance of things without knowing all the factors. So I just observed.
Five minutes later the man in pain was being wheeled out and we’re being herded back into the tight confines of that stuffy holding cage. While I inquired within why the sergeant was having the guy in pain wheeled back to his cell, others made no quiet secret about their disagreement of what appeared to be going on. “He should be going to a hospital, not his cell! What the F--k is wrong with you people?” one of the fellas spewed out.
With that distraction gone, I commence to reading my article when my attention is stolen by another sergeant who is conducting some type of audit. The sergeant asks the clinic officer, an old man, who his partner is, and the clinic officer, seemingly wet behind the ears -- in every way -- points to a female officer standing outside. When she’s motioned in, she starts yelling at the clinic officer, “Why you keep disrespecting me?” she asked. She’s breathing heavy, her round body, shaped like a literal ball on legs, pulsing in and out, and tapping her black shiny boot to the white linoleum, complaining, “Look, I’m here to help you. I’m the kitchen officer. I’m doing your escorts and helping you with the lists and this is the way you treat me?”
The holding cage is now in a complete uproar. The old guy didn’t appear to have done anything wrong. “They’ve got pills for that, you know,” shouted one fella up front. “Relaaaax,” said another, mocking what they tell us. “Hey, don’t make me have to write you a rules violation,” taunted another. I couldn’t help but smile at how they so quickly reversed the roles. It was probably the most comical moment of the day. She quickly retreated from the door and went back outside. The sergeant and the old man stood there flabbergasted.
The next five minutes were relatively quiet ... until someone asked for some toilet paper and the old man refused. “What, we ain’t human, man?” one of the guys asked. To which the old man retorted, “No! As matter of fact, you’re just inmates. That’s all you are is inmates!” To that I stopped my reading to hear the fallout.
“Awe man, you ain’t nothin’ but a motherf--kin’ chump!” an older prisoner yelled. “Hold up,” Red said, “give the old guy a break,” sounding ever so sympathetic at first. “He just ain’t had his Night Train this morning (A cheap wine alcoholics are known for drinking). The holding tank roared with laughter. Even I had to laugh at the unexpected spontaneity of it all.
As things calmed down, and to the old man’s credit, he seemed to take it all in stride, things got quiet again. (After getting the toilet paper, of course.)
Then the old guy asked Red why so-called gangstas “wear their pants on their a--? like gays.”
Having had enough, I injected myself into the debate.”Sir, with all due respect, the root of sagging started in prisons. Some prisons don’t allow belts, so sagging just became natural, and like other prison trends, sagging bled into society.”
“Yeah, but you couldn’t have belts ‘cause you hang yourselves!” he shot back.
“I wonder why people hang themselves in prisons -- or the Army? (I threw in at the last second.) Could it be that both are horrific experiences and break people down beyond their limits?”