“I don’t wanna die alone in here…”
Every prisoner I’ve ever done time with has either stated verbatim—or echoed their own version—of this phrase. I’m no different.
In some weird and perverse way, it’s this universal fear and understanding that cruelly unites those of us who are incarcerated, no matter what our background is. Which is also why a recent emergency in our prison yard, at the Washington Corrections Center, hit closer to home than any of us present at the time probably realized in the moment.
On a hot Tuesday afternoon, on August 26th, shortly after my friends and I set up our workout benches in the weight deck, chaos broke out all around us. Just as we began warming up, I heard people yelling and frantically trying to get the attention of the guards.
As I began to scan the yard to figure out what was going on, I saw it: a lifeless body, slumped on the ground no more than 50 yards away from where I was standing.
I’m not gonna lie. The old convict in me, who has been schooled thoroughly in unspoken and informal prison rules and etiquette, viscerally began to turn the other way. Survival in here generally revolves around how well you can mind your own business. But most importantly, calling out for the guards can oftentimes be viewed as snitching. And the first rule one is taught in prison: DON’T SNITCH! Many of us still live by this code of honor. Others? Well, let’s just say they’re proudly a part of a “secret program” with the prison investigators and a little more friendly with the cops. But that’s a story for another time.
When I finally snapped out of my trance and realized that what I was looking at was a real medical emergency, my own humanity coerced me into joining the others in trying to call for help. And although it felt like a lifetime before any guards even began paying attention, it was probably closer to approximately 2 to 3 minutes before we got any response from them.
The first guard to arrive at the gate of the yard, which is about 75 to 80 yards away from where the person collapsed, couldn’t have been walking any slower. As people all around the yard were panicking, trying to convince him to call a medical emergency, and begging him to show some more urgency, he purposely slowed down his walking just out of spite. I even overheard someone asking him, “What do you mean you don’t give a fuck?”
As more guards began to arrive on the scene, it felt as though none of them had any sense of urgency at all. None of them were even running to assist the person. In fact, a few of them even took the time to stop walking just to tell us to “shut up.”
By the time the first guard on scene finally reached the person desperately needing medical assistance, he took even more time staring at him, but eventually began administering CPR. That’s when the rest of the guards finally began showing some sort of urgency and began treating the situation more like the emergency it was.
Just as all this was happening, a few nurses came out of the medical building, casually strolling as if they were walking to lunch rather than responding to an emergency. When they finally heard people yelling and saw for themselves what was going on, they all ran back into the building instead of toward the emergency. I thought that was extremely odd at first. But when they finally came back out of the building, they had a stretcher with them.
It was around this same time the guards began yelling out directives for everybody to exit the yard and return to the living units. Many people seemed very shaken up by what we all just witnessed, but I think mostly, everybody was understandably just extremely frustrated with the lack of care and empathy the guards were showing for one of our fellow prisoners in need. So as we were all walking towards the gate, some of us voiced these frustrations.
Nobody was refusing the directive to exit the yard, and the only emergency happening was the person who was on the ground. Yet amidst all that was going on, the guards decided they were also now frustrated with some of us and began cuffing people up and taking them to solitary confinement. All this while a person was literally still lifeless on the ground.
By the time I made it back to the front door of my living unit, I could see the person was still laying on the ground while somebody was administering CPR. There were also a few people cuffed up and pushed up against the fence demanding to know what they did.
From the time I first saw the person on the ground to the time I made it back to my living unit, at least 12 to 15 minutes had gone by.
When I finally made it back inside my cell and had a moment to decompress, I realized that I was actually physically shaking. I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was just the effects of my adrenaline. Or maybe the effects of seeing someone die in front of me. But one thing I know for sure: I just couldn’t comprehend how nonchalant the guards were acting. The fact that there was a person, lifeless on the ground, in desperate need of medical assistance—and none of the staff were showing any sense of urgency—is highly concerning. But what’s even more concerning is that I’m not even one bit surprised. The way they moved that day shows you exactly how they feel about us as prisoners. And we all know that’s how they feel. That’s the sad part.
Eventually, days later, we got word that the person began breathing again and is thankfully expected to be okay. And while the guards would like us all to believe that the person o v e r d o s e d, we actually learned that he recently had a heart procedure and was not ready for the heat that day, which is why he collapsed.
At the end of the day, this is just our reality behind bars. Our lives are in the hands of those who’d rather cuff us up than rescue us. Yet it’s us who are considered the dangerous animals. But hey, what do I know? I just tell stories, y’all.
Free Palestine!
Until next time, keep dreaming!
Felix Sitthivong is an incarcerated storyteller, community organizer, and founding member of the Peoples’ Empowerment Assembly for Collective Equity (PEACE). Sitthivong is also the former president and senior advisor for the Asian Pacific Islander Cultural Awareness Group (APICAG). He is currently serving a 66-year sentence at the Washington Corrections Center in Shelton, WA. Reach him with questions for “On the Fence Line” via Securus (WA #354579) or write to him at Felix Sitthivong #354579, PO BOX 900, Shelton, WA 98584.
Felix Sitthivong is an incarcerated storyteller, community organizer, and founding member of the Peoples’ Empowerment Assembly for Collective Equity (PEACE). Sitthivong is also the former president and senior advisor for the Asian Pacific Islander Cultural Awareness Group (APICAG). He is currently serving a 66-year sentence at the Washington Corrections Center in Shelton, WA. Reach him with questions for “On the Fence Line” via Securus (WA #354579) or write to him at Felix Sitthivong #354579, PO BOX 900, Shelton, WA 98584.
