COVID-19 is far from over for the incarcerated – Prism

When I first heard about the coronavirus in early 2020, I braced myself, thinking about its unchecked spread and our vulnerability to disease behind bars. Four years later, as I remain incarcerated, I watch as the pandemic continues to damage our incarcerated community.

Despite the false and damaging narrative from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) and many news outlets that COVID is over, it continues to infect life in corrections. Throughout the pandemic and my multiple infections, Ive watched my Georgia state prison utterly transform. Every aspect of institutional life has been altered, making an already difficult situation even worse. The existing staff shortage has intensified. The COVID-era social distancing from loved ones has persisted. Enrichment programs have been completely removed. Our community has become unwell as the new normal evolved into an epidemic of drugs and violence. The trauma of the virus, the unraveling system, and the absence of support have culminated into a highly unhealthy environment.

When the pandemic hit, there was no way for us incarcerated people to protect ourselves. We could not socially distance, and we lacked personal protective equipment (PPE) and sanitation supplies. Though we remained isolated from society, correctional staff came and went, exposing us. We had our sights set on a vaccine that still had to be created, approved, and distributed, supposedly to the most vulnerable. But it turned out we were even beneath thata population ultimately forgotten. The virus would enter the prison and pass through us, helplessly exposed and neglected.

During this time, my attachment to permanence became obsessive. I realized that, if I were to die, my legacy would consist of an old sweatshirt and a few pairs of socks. I experienced an intense urge to write, making a record of my existence before it was too late. Yet, in every attempt, my hand would freeze above the page. I struggled to write anything of significance during what could have been my final hours.

Late one night, I turned from the blank page to the cell wall in a panic. For the first time in my 16 years in prison, I wrote on the wall, scribbling out the words: I was here.

Over the last 20 years, the Georgia Department of Corrections (GDC) has experienced a steady decline in security and non-security staff. Before the pandemic, there were at least enough officers to staff the essential posts. Dorm officers are supposed to make rounds every 30 minutes and be accessible several times during a shift in case of an emergency. Yet, as COVID began to spread in the U.S. and seep into the institution, many of these state workers opted to take time off or look for alternative employment that would not confine them to crowded spaces for 12 hours at a time. The officers that did show up would often arrive for their shifts, lock the doors, and leave.

Their absence was especially detrimental to the health and safety of the incarcerated population during the height of the pandemic. As we began exhibiting symptoms, sometimes acute and severe, there was no way to seek medical attention. When there is a medical emergency, security staff must notify on-call medical personnel. Even before the pandemic, most officers were reluctant to do so; now, it wasnt even a possibility. Non-COVID-related emergencies went unattended, including violent altercations, electrical fires, and mental health crises. On several occasions, these instances were almost fatal and only resolved with great effort and intervention on the residents part, such as busting the window to get an officers attention or making collect calls to have family members call 911 on someones behalf.

Today, the prison still remains understaffed. Often, one or two officers will be required to supervise up to 600 people. Its a staggering ratio that makes it impossible for the officers to effectively perform their duties, leaving the needs of the population unmet. Given the futility of managing such numbers, correctional staff have resigned themselves to professional indifference while residents have been forced into a perpetual survival mode. The resulting stress and negligence have fostered a hostile environment. In a place of scarcity, with the absence of a reward and punishment system that undergirds corrections, anarchy has ensued. Gangs have established order and control over resources. A community that was once invested in collective well-being and equity, at least to some degree, has fractured into violent groups vying for control over the toilet paper, bread, and hot water.

Non-security staff, whose numbers were also reduced during the pandemic, remain critically impaired. This is especially evident in the mental health, counseling, and recreation departments. During COVID-19, mental health and general population counseling were suspended. In a time when mental health concerns were increased by stress and uncertainty, there was no professional guidance available. Coping with regular prison life is already extremely challenging, and people like myself with mental health concerns who had relied on these services for stability have become unmoored ever since. Mental health staff have become so scarce that individuals with severe diagnoses have gone years without being seen.

As a result of these staff shortages, visitation privileges that were revoked during the pandemic have also not been fully reinstated. Visits have been reduced from six to two hours and must be scheduled online a week in advance. Their reduced duration and ease of visitation have deterred many families who must make long trips. Additionally, all of the special programs that once assisted incarcerated mothers visits with their children stopped and have yet to start again. This has severed vital bonds that, in some cases, may never be restored.

Despite the growing staff shortage from before the pandemic, educational and extracurricular programs were still available. My facility offered several vocational trades, a GED and charter high school program, and opportunities for theological and higher education through Emory and Life University. Parole-required groups were available, and peer-led groups were common. Religious services were also a regular part of the prison roster, and various ministries were active within the community. In March 2020, all of these activities were canceled and have only just started to return this year.

Rehabilitation efforts have also declined significantly since the pandemic. Previously, the GDCs mission had been focused on successful reentry with the help of education, programming, and health care. The GDC released a new mission statement in 2019 stating that the department would focus on facility security and staff safety, and the pandemic exacerbated this shift, revealing a clear and extreme change in attitude away from opportunities for residents to rehabilitate. Since then, the mission has been revised again to readdress rehabilitation on paper, but the damage is done. The culture of the community has changed so much that even programs that have returned are largely unsuccessful. We went from a motivated, collective community to a traumatized, suffering group that no longer has the emotional strength or mental energy to invest in the few opportunities that eventually returned. Participation rates have dropped significantly as residents have become preoccupied with their survival.

The absence of adequate correctional staff, medical care, opportunities for visitation, and educational programming have severely compromised the safety, stability, and support necessary for the women in Georgias state prison. In their place, narcotics have flooded the institution. For many, years of sobriety have been undone. As members of my community have struggled with substance use, they have also succumbed to poverty and depression and become unrecognizable.

People who once found ways to thrive in prison and managed to survive wave after wave of a deadly virus are now suffering physically, emotionally, and psychologically in the foreign and unforgiving terrain of corrections new normal. For us, the lasting effects of the pandemic persist, and the full consequences are still unknown. I personally have experienced persistent dizziness ever since my first infection. Others suffer from lingering respiratory damage, permanent cardiovascular strain, unexplainable rashes, and body aches. We are no longer tested or quarantined, even when staff members test positive and miss work. Since the first booster, no follow-ups have been provided. COVID is still here. We may have just survived another wave, but the prison system and the people who live here cannot recover.

The Right to Write (R2W) project is an editorial initiative where Prism works with incarcerated writers to share their reporting and perspectives across our verticals and coverage areas. Learn more about R2W and how to pitch here.

See more here:

COVID-19 is far from over for the incarcerated - Prism