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In The Shawshank Redemption, Tim Robbins’s character is locked in the same cell with Morgan Freeman’s character for 15 years. When I entered the prison system, that’s sort of what I expected: stuck in the same cell, with the same person, for the majority of my sentence.
I’d never have guessed at the amount of movement happening within the prison system. Not just within a particular prison – that in itself was eye-opening – but movement between prisons.
I’m a newbie to the corrections system, but I’ve already resided in three different prisons. The bus (prison transports) arrives three days a week. Moving day is marked by inmates pushing trolleys stacked with green tubs holding their meagre belongings.
The “bus rides” themselves are torture. For example: Ravenhall to Hopkins is a three and a half hour of sitting on unforgiving metal benches, with up to four inmates crammed shoulder to shoulder in a 1-metre by 1-metre box. I swear the bus had no suspension and that the driver aimed for every bone-jarring pothole. If you need to urinate, the guards offer you a plastic bag.
There are many reasons for moving between prisons: being sentenced, attending court or undergoing medical treatment. You can get ‘tipped’ (expelled from the prison) for various infractions or if someone ‘drops a note on you’. I’ve heard stories of troublesome inmates touring the corrections system, tipped from one prison after another, finding themselves locked down 23 hours per day in special management cells. Other reasons to ‘get on the bus’ include attending a program not offered at your current location or moving to a ‘lower rated’ prison as part of your parole journey.
The best reason is when you go home – an occasion for handshakes, best wishes and the obligatory ‘don’t let me see you back here’.
In The Shawshank Redemption, Tim Robbins’s character is locked in the same cell with Morgan Freeman’s character for 15 years. When I entered the prison system, that’s sort of what I expected: stuck in the same cell, with the same person, for the majority of my sentence.
I’d never have guessed at the amount of movement happening within the prison system. Not just within a particular prison – that in itself was eye-opening – but movement between prisons.
I’m a newbie to the corrections system, but I’ve already resided in three different prisons. The bus (prison transports) arrives three days a week. Moving day is marked by inmates pushing trolleys stacked with green tubs holding their meagre belongings.
The “bus rides” themselves are torture. For example: Ravenhall to Hopkins is a three and a half hour of sitting on unforgiving metal benches, with up to four inmates crammed shoulder to shoulder in a 1-metre by 1-metre box. I swear the bus had no suspension and that the driver aimed for every bone-jarring pothole. If you need to urinate, the guards offer you a plastic bag.
There are many reasons for moving between prisons: being sentenced, attending court or undergoing medical treatment. You can get ‘tipped’ (expelled from the prison) for various infractions or if someone ‘drops a note on you’. I’ve heard stories of troublesome inmates touring the corrections system, tipped from one prison after another, finding themselves locked down 23 hours per day in special management cells. Other reasons to ‘get on the bus’ include attending a program not offered at your current location or moving to a ‘lower rated’ prison as part of your parole journey.
The best reason is when you go home – an occasion for handshakes, best wishes and the obligatory ‘don’t let me see you back here’.
Moves are stressful. You pack your belongings, even if you’re just going for a week. This is because there is no guarantee you’ll be reallocated to the same cell, or the same job, as the one before you left. You may be in a cottage (top-tier accommodation) before you leave and return to a three-out in central when you get back. Then you have to start over. It’s a roll of the dice.
If you’re inside for a long-term, it’s better to choose friends with similar terms. Short-timers are known as “tourists” – they come, they go. How many years until you pass tourist status? Three? Five? Definitions vary. If your friends have a similar term, there’s a better chance they’ll be around for a while – but it’s never guaranteed.
One day you’re living with someone, or working with them, and the next they’re gone. There’s rarely any notice; you just don’t see them again.
Rumours abound, but you can rarely believe them. Maintaining a support group is not easy. You find someone you trust, and then suddenly they’re ‘on the bus’. Sometimes you’ll get a letter or an email – usually they just disappear from your life.
So far at this location, I’ve been in seven different cells in three different communities, with many more changes of cellmates – I’ve roomed with other inmates for as long as 9 months or as short as 1 day.
The continual movement does little for one’s sense of permanency or security. It’s not your cell – it’s the prison’s. There’s an ongoing sense of anxiety, when you could be rousted from your cell at a moment’s notice: “You go where we tell you!”
The first thing you learn in prison? Never get attached. Everything can change in a day. Fifteen years in the same cell? Not a chance!
Moves are stressful. You pack your belongings, even if you’re just going for a week. This is because there is no guarantee you’ll be reallocated to the same cell, or the same job, as the one before you left. You may be in a cottage (top-tier accommodation) before you leave and return to a three-out in central when you get back. Then you have to start over. It’s a roll of the dice.
If you’re inside for a long-term, it’s better to choose friends with similar terms. Short-timers are known as “tourists” – they come, they go. How many years until you pass tourist status? Three? Five? Definitions vary. If your friends have a similar term, there’s a better chance they’ll be around for a while – but it’s never guaranteed.
One day you’re living with someone, or working with them, and the next they’re gone. There’s rarely any notice; you just don’t see them again.
Rumours abound, but you can rarely believe them. Maintaining a support group is not easy. You find someone you trust, and then suddenly they’re ‘on the bus’. Sometimes you’ll get a letter or an email – usually they just disappear from your life.
So far at this location, I’ve been in seven different cells in three different communities, with many more changes of cellmates – I’ve roomed with other inmates for as long as 9 months or as short as 1 day.
The continual movement does little for one’s sense of permanency or security. It’s not your cell – it’s the prison’s. There’s an ongoing sense of anxiety, when you could be rousted from your cell at a moment’s notice: “You go where we tell you!”
The first thing you learn in prison? Never get attached. Everything can change in a day. Fifteen years in the same cell? Not a chance!
Even behind bars, there are ways to soften the edges. Ways not just to pass the time, but to leave prison carrying something more than the baggage you came in with.
The other old men and I never thought our lives would come to this. But here we gather again, like withered autumn leaves, awaiting the 7 am call for muster. Occasionally we stare at the large blank television screen which has been positioned high up in a corner of our small common room. What are we looking for?
I spat my first fireball on the shore of Warwick's Leslie Dam over half a century ago. That freaky moment was the flashpoint for a short but spectacular career as a professional fire breather. It gave me money and notoriety, but it very nearly killed me.
Victoria has just announced a raft of changes to youth justice. It will uplift a number of children’s offences to face adult prison terms, and will also introduce a new ‘Violence Reduction Unit’ to coordinate crime prevention policies across government.
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