July 2017, and the prison was on another lockdown. Everyone living in Tubman (including me) knew the reason – two women living in a cell across the hall from mine had been caught selling meth. Administration spent days tearing apart their room trying to find the drugs and eventually brought a drug dog to search all of Tubman.

“Upper B to the dayroom,” the PA squawked. Doors snapped open and we filed down the hall. Sitting at a table in the dayroom we waited. I couldn’t see the search team, so I didn’t know the dog was ‘alerting’ at my door. Back in my room, I soon received a visitor. “Ms. Aho, would you come with us please?” Two guards stood in the doorway.

“Ok,” I said. As I was ushered to a holding cell at the prison’s intake area, I didn’t know what to think. At prison, interruptions to normal routine are never explained to residents. Work is cancelled without warning, programming ends early without reason, guards run here and there, and inmates are never told why. I was used to being uninformed and didn’t question what was happening. I did not know that I had been singled out. An hour later, I was asked to do a drug test and brought into a bigger holding cell which had a toilet.

Before I could perform a drug test, I was strip searched. This is a ritual I’ve performed thousands of times during my incarceration. While two guards watched, I carefully removed each item of clothing I wore and shook it out before placing the items on a metal bunk to my left. Standing naked, finished removing all clothing, I bent forward, my hair falling in a curtain over my face as I shook it out, fingers combing through to prove nothing was hidden. This is step one of the strip search routine created by the prison. I felt vulnerable. I tried to think about something else, pretend I was somewhere else, as I continued. Standing upright again I was asked to pull my mouth open wide with my hands and lift up my tongue, so guards could check for hidden items. Next, I must pull each ear forward to show nothing is hidden there either. Women with large breasts must also lift each breast to show nothing is hidden underneath. If a woman is plus sized she must stretch out folded skin, such as rolled stomach fat, to show nothing is hidden there. Now hands up and arms out to show nothing is hidden under my arms, and then I must turn and face the wall so the guards can gaze atmy back.

Putting both hands on the wall for balance I bend the knee and lift each foot, one at a time, wiggling my toes to indicate nothing is hidden. Finally, still facing the wall with my rear to the guards, I must bend in a squat and cough, stand up, and repeat this three times – three deep knee bends and coughs while guards stare at my rear. The strip search is done but the horror is far from over for me today.

I was told to remain naked and given a cup for collecting urine. As I sat nude on the toilet two female officers stood inches from my knees and stared between my legs, watching for me to urinate. Self-consciously I willed myself to pee so this could be over. I wondered what the guards were thinking. Casually they talked about their day.

Many women “fail” the drug test (and are sent to seg for this failure) because they cannot urinate while two strangers stare between their legs. Filling the collection cup I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Soon this would all be over,’ I thought. I was wrong.

Drug test completed, the guards left me alone to redress. “She passed the drug test,” I overheard as I sat against the wall. Hours later two more guards, this time a man and a woman, appeared at my holding cell. Unlocking the door, they asked me to step forward, then handcuffed me behind my back. “Ms. Aho, we are taking you to seg at this time,” the man said. I was completely baffled. By this point in my incarceration, I’d actively sought to learn the rules and follow them exactly. My prison policy handbook was well read. I thought over all the rules I’d broken in the past and how diligently I’d worked at change. Now I couldn’t think of a single rule I could be accused of breaking. “What? Why?” I asked.

The man smirked and said, “I don’t know. What have you done wrong?” He laughed smugly. The woman said nothing.

“I’ve done absolutely nothing,” I responded confidently, truthfully. I was certain.

“Yeah right,” the man scoffed, and pulled on my arm. Bewildered, I walked between them as they brought me down the hall to the segregation unit, each tugging on an elbow.

Entering seg we passed cells filled with women until we reached the end of the hall where a cell door stood open. Three more female guards waited. One held a black wand. I was shown inside, and the man left. All four women, however, followed me into the small cell. “You are going to remove all your clothing while we watch. Shake out each item after you remove it, and then set it on the bed,” I was told. Another strip search.

After the second strip search I was told, “Turn around, face us and stand with your legs spread apart and hold your arms straight out from your sides.” I turned to find the four women staring at me. I dropped my gaze to the floor, embarrassed. I did as I was told, and the woman with the black wand stepped close. Waving it above and below each arm, down my back and again over each leg, she then commanded me to turn around and remain standing in the same position. The room was cold, adding to my discomfort. She performed the same ritual on the other side of my body. As she finished, a fifth guard entered the small space holding orange folded clothing and slippers, which she set on the bed. “Put these on,” she said and left. The other 4 women left with her, and I was alone again, baffled. I still had not been told why I was here.

I turned my attention to the clothes on the bed and discovered I’d been given two shirts and no pants. The shirts were 4 sizes too big for me. I scanned the room as I donned underwear, shirt and socks. A quick glance told me the toilet paper holder was empty. ‘Just great,’ I thought, as I had to pee again. I was so rattled I could barely pray, “Jesus, what is going on here?”

“Trust Me,” He said confidently.

“Help me to trust You. I need help!” I responded tearfully.

A scraping noise caught my ear. To the right of my door was a shelf attached to the wall, with a slot in it. The slot opened and a food tray slid onto the shelf. Quickly I knocked on the door to get the attention of the guard outside. “I need pants and toilet paper!” I told her. She nodded and left. I looked at my dinner, noting it arrived with paper napkins. ‘That will have to do,’ I thought, setting them over the toilet paper holder. I was so upset I refused to eat the dinner, and pushed it back out the slot.

“Hey!” someone nearby shouted, “who did they just bring up here?” I recognized the voice of a former student.

“I don’t know,” a voice across the hall yelled back.

“Well get up and look at the name on the door!” returned the first voice.

Shuffling was heard and after a pause the woman across the hall answered, “It says ‘Holly Aho.’”

“What?” the first voice responded in shock, “the tutor?? You read that wrong.”

A different voice piped up, “No, you idiot, the tutor has been here for a while.” I knew this third voice was referring to a co-worker of mine who had been here in seg for a month.

The yelling voices continued. “No, you are an idiot!” the first voice replied. “I’m not talking about the math tutor.” Redirecting her attention to the woman who lives across the hall from me, she accused, “You said ‘Holly Aho’ is in there.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. So what?” my now sullen neighbor responded.

“You read that name wrong cause that’s impossible. She’s the English tutor and she just wrote me a letter. I got it right here! It can’t be her.” The girl across the hall didn’t reply.

A pause and then the first voice demanded loudly, “Holly? Is that you?!? HOLLY AHO is that you next door?” This hollering continued as I sulked and ignored her. She hollered for 20 minutes.  She could have won awards for persistence.

After a while I was sick of the yelling. I sighed and answered, “Yes it’s me.”

“What are YOU doing here?” the woman responded, shocked.

“I have no idea,” I answered.

“Well, that’s one person I actually believe,” she answered and laughed.

Suddenly my co-worker- the math tutor, appeared at my door, staring at me in shock through the window. She’d been in seg long enough to be a seg worker. I had been writing her encouraging letters as well, ever since she went to seg. I gave her a little wave. “What are you doing here??” she asked. I shrugged. She noticed my uneaten dinner. A look of sympathy filled her eyes. I dropped my gaze. Looking at my bare legs, I asked if she could find me some pants. She nodded and disappeared down the hall.

I stared at the walls and thought. It might be days before anyone tells me why I was here. A significant stressor for most inmates when they are sent to seg is the “room pack” performed by guards. An indication an inmate has been removed to seg is when a guard or guards pack up their room, putting all belongings in gray tubs. Each tub is 12” wide, 18” tall and 30” long and has a removable lid.

Each inmate is only allowed two tubs worth of property, plus a third tub (or bin as they are also called) for linens, pillows and blankets. While this limit is easy for a newcomer to obey, I’d never seen a long-termer who could fit their property into 2 bins. We had running jokes about all the property a long-termer is apt to collect over the years, especially if they never move to a different room (which requires using the tubs to move their items).

When doing a room pack guards do not make executive decisions about an item’s importance to the inmate. They grab everything in sight and dump it into the bin. When 2 bins are full of whatever was nearest to hand the rest of the items are bagged and an inmate can choose to mail these items out or “donate” them to the prison (where guards take what they want). Inmates often lose precious items in this way such as photos of children or parents. Expensive electronic items are also frequently broken during careless room packs. Such experiences can be painful and traumatic.

The previous winter, however, Jesus had convicted me about this rule. I didn’t realize what an emotional unburdening it would be to obey. Over the years I’d amassed a lot of property including books, and legal paperwork. I remember the day I got 2 bins and brought them to my room. Whatever didn’t fit would have to go. 

I opened the closet and was faced with a tall stack of legal paperwork. Created by social services, it detailed much of the abuse my husband had inflicted on my children. I desperately wanted my daughter back, wanted to find her! Fearing my husband, I began saving documents I thought would work in my favor. The bigger the stack grew, the more reassured I felt. Now the stack was at least a foot tall and weighed a ton. I set it in the bin.

“Have a seat,” Jesus said, sitting on the floor. I sat beside Him and we both stared at the bin filled with paper. “Holly, nothing in heaven or on earth happens without My say-so,” Jesus began reassuringly. “Turn to Psalm 62 and read it out loud.”

I did as He asked and read: “Trust not in and rely confidently not on extortion and oppression, and do not vainly hope in robbery; if riches increase, set not your heart on them. God has spoken once, twice have I heard this: that power belongs to God.” 

“Are you trusting Me, or that stack of paper for your future?” Jesus asked.

I grabbed the paperwork out of the bin and dumped it all in the trash. It made a terrific noise as the papers settled to the bottom. My heart felt like a physical weight had been lifted! I felt light and free! “Thank you Jesus,” I whispered. “I trust you with my children and our future.”

I set to work getting rid of all the other things I didn’t need, now with a clearer perspective. Today my belongings easily fit in just a bin and a half, ensuring that no matter who packs my room nor how carelessly they do it, everything will fit.

Sitting in seg I thanked Jesus again for convicting me in this way and giving me the ability to obey Him. This memory gave me new strength. I felt certain that soon my situation would be resolved. I would be returned to my room and job and all my property would be restored. Night fell and a new day in seg began.

Several days passed. I read, wrote, and napped. Women nearby hollered out conversations to each other and read their mail out loud for entertainment. On my third in seg day rec time was announced. A few of us could go outside together.

Returning inside after, I noticed a small box in the hallway. One of the other women pointed at it and said, “You’re getting out of here!” I didn’t doubt her. She’d been here long enough to learn everything. I was surprised that this might be happening so soon without a struggle. “You can put your clothes on, they’re in the box, and get out of here,” she added.

I could hardly believe it. No one had come to speak with me beforehand. It was surreal. A few days stay, an hour outside, and suddenly it’s over. I dashed to my room and brought the box in. Changing my clothes, I then headed down to the guard desk at the entrance to seg. I passed the math tutor in the hall, who headed to clean my room.

Suddenly I realized I’d forgotten something in the room. The guard told me to go back and grab it. Flustered, I did just that – only the math tutor was already in the room. Only assigned roommates can be inside a cell together, and of course that didn’t describe us. She stood and stiffened as I barged in. Now more flustered I breathlessly explained my arrival and ran around the room searching for the thing. I didn’t find it and ran out again in a panic.

Making my way back to the guard desk I noted the guard staring at me, head tipped to the side, as if studying a new species with curiosity. When I drew close he asked, “Do you WANT to stay in seg?”

“What? No!” I answered.

“Then don’t go into other people’s rooms!” Laughing, he pointed to the door and added, “Get out of here you moron!” He didn’t have to ask me twice! Off I went!

My next stop was the Property window, where I’d retrieve my gray bins that had been packed by guards. “Here are your bins,” the lady told me, and before I could respond she bent down to lift something off a shelf. It was my television. Suddenly my heart was in my throat as I stared at it. I knew what was coming next. She would plug it in to confirm it hadn’t been broken by guards while I was in seg. I feared what would happen as soon as she did so…

Electronics at the prison are modified before sale to fit prison regulations, modifications that include removal of any speakers and packaging in a special clear case. Want to use the alarm? Too bad, there’s no speaker for the alarm clock. The same is true of TVs. I, however, bought my television years prior, and had received one of the first flat screen televisions at the prison. For that reason, mine was different from all the others – the prison had forgotten to remove the speakers, although they had disconnected them.

A year later a clever inmate explained how she had, using bobby pins, managed to reconnect the speakers. Inspired, I slid bobby pins through small holes in the case and carefully reconnected my own speakers. It worked! 

Now I stood at Property, my television resting on the counter. The guard searched for an outlet as my mind raced. TVs all started up with a loud boot up program, like a cell phone turning on. Any second now my TV would announce it had speakers! I berated myself. Soon I would have no TV at all! “There!” the guard announced, successfully plugging in the TV. Standing upright she reached for the power button. My mind screamed, “NO!” but I said nothing.

Pushing the little button, we waited, and nothing happened. The TV remained off. Frowning, she pushed the button again, but I sighed with relief, remembering! All the buttons on the tv were metal, and a few years earlier I had shorted out these controls with an accidental static shock from my finger. The only way to turn my television on after that was with the remote, which was not in evidence.

Urgency pouring into me I quickly sputtered, “The buttons are all shorted out. It’s old. It only works with the remote,” I glanced at the tubs, where it was likely inside, and continued before she might decide to find it, “the remote is probably buried in there. It’s fine. I’m sure it works. I’ll just go now.”

A little disconcerted, the guard shrugged and waved me away. Since I’d not been charged with any discipline I was returned to my single room, which I enjoyed because I had been discipline free for so long.

As I entered Tubman I spotted the same female guard who had ushered me to seg just days before. “So you really didn’t do anything wrong!” she said with a bit of wonder as I headed to my room.

“I really didn’t,” I replied. ‘Well, except for this TV,’ I added to myself. I would miss hearing my TV like a normal person in the privacy of my private room, but that was a small thing compared to the freedom I would gain over anxiety.