I was struck by the smell of empty institutionalism while I sat in waiting. It was a smell of nothing alive. Any smell that had existed was replaced by a Simple Green-residue, which is all that still remains. All of the sounds were heavy, echoing in the room, too large for just Bill, two workers and I. Each sound parenthetical to the standard, low grade electrical buzz common to government buildings. Boots clomping on the KMART style tiled floor. Keys hitting against each other, and the sound of a heavy door opening, closing.This is the sound that sits with me the most. A simple door, well, several doors. Doors of a prison have made me reconsider doors as a whole. The symbolic importance of doors in a prison no longer feel that far removed from the doors of my home and the other institutions that make up my life.

So, Bill and I wait to visit Betty Wilburn in the Federal Correctional Instution for Women in Dublin. Bill has visited her regularly for about a year to provide some occassional company to her. While she is in one of the “nicest” facilities that she could choose, it is just less than 5 years and 3,000 miles away from her dreams. Her mother and daughter are too far to visit often and she has been sent the the SHU in the past for communicating with her friends (since they were involved in her crime).

After a 20 minute wait, in which we were able to browse t-shirts, mugs hats and keychains bearing the prison’s logos, we are summoned to go through the metal detector. We follow a path bordering a perfectly groomed brilliant green lawn, which stands out starkly against the touseled dry straw of the goldenrod rolling hills on every side of us. About 100 feet away, there is another door, identicle to the one which we just passed through.

What we entered is the institutional equivalent of a McDonald’s. We could have been anywhere in the country in any kind of government or medical building. we were surrounded by vending machines of all kinds and window grating that attempted to be decorative. The stylish open beam industrial architechture was strikingly appropriate here.

We passed through and found Betty sitting in an enclosed patio, with many picnic tables and a play structure. Bill made eye contact with Betty and she stood to greet us with a sweet hug.

I sat opposite her and learned about her family in Philadelphia and her history there. She discussed her drug related crimes for which she was incarcerated 18 years ago with much repentence. She talked about how bad she was and how she had earned this prison sentence. I wanted to tell her no, that her crimes were victimless and that nobody deserved to be held like this. I wanted her to know that I believed her to be no more dangerous to society or herself than my own grandmother. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything like that. She just had to be heard, that was all that I should offer.

While Bill was talking about his upcoming trip, I let my eyes wander. I was so surprised by how normal all of the women looked. Many were white and over 40 years old. There were several young and middle aged latina women. About 6 had children or grandchildren there. They all looked very tired.

Then we talked about what her life was like right then. What she had done the week before and events that she was getting ready for. This is what struck me the most of all. Betty’s life is a lot like a mainstream American’s.

While I am aware of prison labor, something shifted in my understanding when I met a prison laborer. Betty works a 40-hour per week job! At the time I was, also and the more that she talked the more similarities that I felt in our lives. Two evenings a week, she goes to computer class so that she may move into different work. She also participates in a crafts circle and sees current movies. I really understood the production-function of prison for the first time. Betty has been mainstreamed under the supervision of the prison system.

I left with a slight headache and naseau. It is the same feeling that I get when I spend too much time in a library or shopping mall. I enjoyed meeting Betty, but was left with a lot of confusion and sadness.

Which was more stunning? Was it really her life that surprised me or was it the reflections that her experiences put on my own and on the lives of those outside of prison? Unfortunately, I think the answer is both…