Oct 11

Oct 11 Jack Goes to Prison

Chicago, Architecture, Chicago Tourism, Things to Do in Chicago, Urban Landscapes

“I hear the train a comin’
It’s rollin’ ‘round the bend,
And I ain’t seen the sunshine
Since, I don’t know when
I’m stuck in Folsom Prison
And time keeps draggin’ on
But that train keeps a-rollin’
On down to San Antone”

— Folsom Prison Blues, Johnny Cash, issued as a 78 RPM Record, Sun Records Number 232 (1955)

I have often wondered what it would be like to be locked away in prison for an extended stay. No travel; no meals out; no spouse; no East Bank Club; no friends; no theatre or music; no nothing. Twenty-four/seven, locked in a 10-foot-by-10-foot cube, with a toilet, but no seat. And then I give the matter further thought. All that time: I could master the guitar; learn French; read Dante’s Commedia. In short, peace and quiet—maybe not so bad after all.

Over the last eight months, Trump and the Base have been running a gigantic prison simulation. Now, we know what imprisonment is like. Plenty of peace and quiet, along with too much Netflix; too much freshly baked bread; and too much artificial exercise on a stationary spin bike or treadmill. The physical aspects of confinement have not been the problem, particularly for those like me who live in comfortable surroundings. Then what is so maddening about our collective predicament? It’s knowing that I cannot book a flight to Paris where Emily awaits me. It’s being limited to where I can photograph because there are no public restrooms open. It’s not being able to sit in a Starbucks for 45 minutes with other people in close proximity—those strangers transfixed on their screens may be annoying, but they still offer a modicum of human contact even when contact is limited to a glance. It’s taking classes via Zoom—a technology that I have grown to despise—without a communal lunch afterwards at Food Life.

Against that backdrop, I woke at 4 AM today, and headed to Joliet, Illinois to photograph the state prison that once housed close to 1,300 prisoners at its peak occupancy. Opened in 1858, the facility was designed by Chicago architect W.W. Boyington, who also can include Chicago’s famed Water Tower as part of his portfolio. Both structures are made of distinctive limestone that was quarried from a nearby mine.

The prison’s most infamous inmates were Nathan Leopold, Jr. and Richard Loeb, two University of Chicago students who kidnapped and then murdered 14-year-old Bobby Franks in an effort to prove their intellectual superiority over the detectives who would be assigned the case. Famed attorney Clarence Darrow managed to convince a judge to send the duo to the Joliet Correctional Facility for 99 years in lieu of the death penalty. Oops, Nathan and Richard were not quite as smart as they had thought.

On entering the prison, which ceased operations in 2002, I was struck by the size of the outdoor space. Humongous. As I spent my allotted four hours roaming the grounds and the buildings, I came to realize just how much the prisoners and I had in common in dealing with our respective confinements. Mention the word “prison,” and cells come to mind. But there is a lot more to a prison than I realized. Like those who still hold jobs during the COVID pandemic, those working in the prison mattress factory did not have to fight traffic when they went to work—they were working from home. Nor did the prisoners need to look outside the proverbial four walls for exercise. I saw the remnants of multiple basketball courts, a baseball diamond, and what I suspect were handball courts. I did not see a prison weight room, but I suspect one existed.

I spent a great deal of time during the first ten weeks of the pandemic confinement reading books on my iPad. Although the prison library was not visible, there once was one, so some of the prisoners may have read the same books that I did back in March and April, including Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield, Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange, Albert Camus’ The Plague, and Richard Wright’s Native Son.

I’ve savored every meal given that food morsels provide a much needed sensual pleasure—there is no wind blowing, rain falling, or blue sky looking watchfully down from above. The prison cafeteria certainly looked large and pleasant, although having the Bulls watching overhead as I ate would irritate me. Believe me, I know: I have a cat as a mealtime companion. He hovers and waits in anticipation for an opportune moment. The prison’s food probably was not as good or varied as my daily menu, but mealtime was a communal experience, which made it a sensate one.

I don’t partake in organized religion, but if I did, I certainly could have looked to the web to meet my needs during the lockdown. Whoever conceived of the Joliet Correctional Facility made sure that the inmates would have ready access to religious services and ministry. There is a large chapel, with confession booths, so inmates could continue to pray, contemplate their maker, and pursue contrition with the aid of Saint Peter’s second key. The authorities even once allowed Billy Graham to bring his ministry to the prison. Graham’s son, Franklin, still has not showed up at my house, nor has Jerry Falwell, Jr., although the latter would creep me out if he did ring my doorbell: He likes to watch, just like my cat.

Fortunately, I didn’t need a doctor during the first ten weeks of my confinement, but I certainly had medical services close by and readily available. The Joliet facility offered inmates what appears to have been good care, with an onsite hospital and lab. The x-ray machine is still hanging from the ceiling, although I suspect it no longer works.

To summarize: Like myself, the prisoners had all their basic needs attended to despite involuntary confinement, which raises the question: What’s so bad about confinement, be it due to a pandemic, or pursuant to a jury’s verdict and a judge’s sentence? I think it comes down to the loss of control. The inmates and I have creature comforts, and out basic needs are met, including the need for intellectual stimulation. But we both lost the freedom to choose. I am on the pandemic’s schedule; they were on the warden’s. We could not come and go as we might wish. In voicing a prisoner’s despair, Johnny Cash sings, “But those people keep a-movin’ And that’s what tortures me.” Those people have the choice as to when and where they come and go; the prisoners once incarcerated in Joliet didn’t, nor do I.

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