Absence of Light is a project created in collaboration with incarcerated people at Auburn Correctional Facility in Auburn, New York.

Editor’s note: As of Tuesday, 120 corrections officers at Auburn Correctional Facility have tested positive for the coronavirus or have come in contact with the virus, The Auburn Citizen reported. That number increased to over 200 by Friday. Visitation and programs have shut down in the prison. 

This is an account from inside Auburn Correctional Facility’s A-block, from our Absence of Light Columnist Cliff Graham, as told to Enterprise Editor Gabe Stern. You can find more information about this piece here.

Things are slowing down again, right when they were about to pick back up. Our outside visits, they got suspended. The lack of staff, it cuts the facility operations. They don’t have the staff to actually supervise. The bare essentials for us get stripped as a result. 

Are there any reports out there? Do people know about this? Some guys have been saying that over 100 guards have tested positive, but nobody knows who’s positive and who’s in quarantine. 

For the lack of staff, I’m guessing a lot of the recreational time will eventually be cut short. But our main concern is making sure that they’re accommodating us, because they did such a poor job during the first wave of the pandemic. And we’re kind of hoping that they learned from that. 

But now it seems like they’re depriving us even more than they did back in the summer.  When we got that first glimpse of the shutdown in March, they didn’t allow some people to receive hot water to wash and things like that because, in some of our cells, we had nothing but cold water. Not everybody was able to get to a shower. And it didn’t make sense to me. 

Minute notes from Inmate Liaison Committee: June, July, September by The Daily Orange on Scribd

That’s the most frustrating thing. We’re in the dark with everything. What are the policies in regards to the guards? What caused such an outbreak like that? Who issued the memo?

You live and you learn, right? So how is it that you have an administration that controls the facility, who controls everything — supplies, cleaning solutions, gloves, masks — and you don’t even enforce everything? It’s just backwards to me. A lot of the guys, they’re fed up with it. That’s why everybody reaches out to their families.

I stopped going to meals somewhat, because that’s where the first cases spread from. I’ll wake up, and sometimes I’ll breeze by to get some milk and eat cereal in my cell. After that, I’m in my cell until they call for the one hour of rec time in the yard, which varies throughout the week. I’ll remain in my cell until they call for it. Then, after that, I’ll be back in my cell for the rest of the night.

That’s exactly what it is. Twenty-three hours. It might be 23 and a half. A 6-by-9-foot cell.

Our only escape is to either talk amongst each other or listen to a little music. But even that mindset, psychologically, you kind of shy away from after a while when other things are on your mind. Like whether or not you can contract a virus that’s life-threatening. There’s nothing that can cure those types of thoughts, unless we can get some type of assistance with the supplies or some type of reassurance. Unless admin says, “Look, we understand what’s going on, and we’re going to  make sure we’ll do anything possible to prevent the exposure.” But that’s not happening. And that’s why everyone is so panicky right now.

None of the administration walked around to inform my area as to what was going on. They just shut it down. The night before, word spread among the prisoners about the brief shutdown. The guards were whispering amongst each other, and they might’ve told somebody. But like I said, we’re always left in the dark, and that creates even more of a panic. 

Just recently they mandated that prisoners wear a mask. Since March, they’ve given us three cloth masks that we had to reuse, rewash, stuff like that. They gave us some cotton ones that are just terrible — the first or second wear, they tear up — and some plastic ones that we only get one use out of. They’re not consistent enough with supplying us with them. 

The thing is this: If we had some organic remedies, at least we could do something, you know what I mean? We wouldn’t be left to battle it with nothing. We’re asking the public for a little assistance. Some masks, teas. Because the way it’s moving, it’s going to create a panic, a lot of nervousness, a lot of hopelessness. The list goes on.

There were three guys on my side of the block who had put requests in for sick calls with fevers. In the morning, we heard the nurse coming through for rounds, and one of the guys was like, “Listen, I’m burning up. I’m sweaty.” She said, “Alright, we’ll check your temperature.” Then she was like, “You’re over 99. You’re not over 100, so restrain yourself for a few days. Here’s some ibuprofen.” And that was it. She never came back. We checked in and everything. One of the guys was giving him some herbal advice, stuff that he read through the paper or through books about certain herbs, like cinnamon and garlic and ginger roots. 

Then there was another guy who was simply like, “You know what? I’ll tough it out. I’m not putting in sick call or anything, because they’re not going to do anything.” And that’s what we fear. We could be carriers, and nothing is being done. We should at least have some proper medical care. What they’re providing us with, it’s ridiculous. They’re giving some generic ibuprofen for a fever instead of properly quarantining some of us. It’s prison. And whatever we complain about in certain instances, they’re like, “We’re not a five-star hotel.” 

Auburn Correctional Facility is an all-men’s prison in Auburn, New York. Gabe Stern | Enterprise Editor

It’s so easy to say that. But what about a human’s basic necessities? The essentials. We’re not even seeing the bare minimum at all. We don’t even know what the minimum looks like in here. Everybody’s basically doing things based on the support that they receive from the outside with remedies and food. Or, they’re reading up on certain remedies and trying to get that sent in.

But for now, it’s just awkward and silent, and we’re not really used to that. Everybody’s normally boisterous about certain things. A guy would come through without a mask on, and they would be like, “Why the hell do you not have your mask on?” And right now, since I think there are over 100-something of them in quarantine, it’s an awkward silence between the two. I haven’t even seen many pat-frisks, and I haven’t seen many cell searches.

They might believe that we’re hoping it’s really bad for them. But the majority of the prisoners right now, we hope they survive what they’re going through. If they all come back positive, that means they have to backtrack, and it’ll be a catastrophe. So we hope that they get well.

Honestly, right now, I think this awkwardness is gearing up to transfer into a form of depression. Because, everybody knows what it felt like in the first wave, when they canceled visits for months. Everybody was so stressed and depressed. So everybody is in their mind, like, “Oh man, we have to go through this all over again?”  

I hope people catch onto this videogram option on the email service. You can send live videos, 30 seconds a piece. Because the videogram is going to be our imagery until they fix visitation. I’m trying to send out emails and tell my contacts: Videogram, videogram, videogram. I just want to laugh. I want to see what’s out there in society. And that’s pretty much what everybody in here is gearing up to do too.

On one of the last days of visits, my father came through, and he cooked me a little bit of food. I kind of foresaw something happening because, the last time he came to see me, he came and bought me some food. And that was the same time that they canceled the visits in March. He came through, we spoke about things going on in society. I had a nice visit. It was just, right after that, that’s when the shutdown happened. 

It made me think, “Wow, life is so unexpected,” you know what I mean? And I know there’s a lot of the unexpectedness out there as well. But we’re facing it in here, and I believe there’s different levels to it. It’s a little more narrow. And when it hits us in here, there’s a different level of tension. 

This account is from phone conversations on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Cliff Graham is a Syracuse resident currently incarcerated at Auburn Correctional Facility in Auburn, New York. He is serving a 12-year sentence.

Published on December 13, 2020 at 3:42 pm

Contact Gabe: gkstern@syr.edu | @gabestern326