For Prison Visits, Humiliation is the Price of Admission

In June, I stepped into a body scanner outside the visitation room at the Washington Corrections Center and held my breath. This was supposed to be an improvement. Until recently, prisoners had to submit to an invasive strip search after visits. The newly installed body scanner offered a more humane way to screen for contraband. I had nothing on me, so I figured I had nothing to worry about. But it’s never that straightforward in prison.

As I walked through the scanner, the guard operating the machine stopped me.

“It looks like he has something in his stomach,” he said to another guard. The two began to whisper while I waited. I’d heard other guys in prison encounter similar bogus findings on the scanner. Though there was nothing the machine possibly could have detected, I felt my chest tighten as I knew what was coming next.

“We need to strip search you,” the guard said.

I followed them to a small shower stall. The guards made me remove all of my clothing, and I stood there as two grown men looked me up and down, inspecting every crevice of my body. They didn’t find anything, as expected. Everything was in order—except for my dignity. When I expressed my frustration at the blatantly unnecessary search, one of the guards blamed prisoners for inviting this on ourselves.

“If it wasn’t for all of your families bringing in contraband, we wouldn’t have to treat you like this,” he said. But when I asked if he strip searches other guards, as corrections officers are often caught smuggling contraband into prisons in exchange for money, he didn’t respond.

As I walked back to my living unit, I was enraged that the experience made me contemplate skipping future visits from family and friends. Why risk subjecting myself to a practice that civil liberties groups have described as sexual abuse? 

Carlos Bernardez, a man I’m incarcerated with, recently had a similar experience of being strip searched after a faulty body scanner reading. He described it as not just an assault on prisoners’ rights but an attack against his wife—who had just visited—and her character.

These are just the latest in a series of senseless actions by prison guards to make it more difficult for incarcerated people to maintain relationships with our friends and family.

For visitors, entering prison requires navigating a series of ever-changing, inconsistently enforced rules, where accidental violations, no matter how minor, can result in losing a rare opportunity to see an incarcerated loved one in person. There’s the two-page dress code, which has requirements that cover everything from undergarments, clothing color, hem lengths, shoe heights, and even the number of rings worn.

One visitor, who requested anonymity out of fear of retaliation from staff, recalled being harassed over the length of her skirt during a recent visit. Surrounded by three guards, she was asked to lift her arms, spin around and perform various movements so they could decide if the skirt was, in fact, above knee level. Ultimately, they called a supervisor to decide if she could enter. Her visit was approved in the end, but only after being subjected to a humiliating spectacle.

Once inside the visitation room, there are rules about how many times you can kiss (once at the beginning of the visit and once at the end), how long the kisses can last (no more than five seconds, though they give you a generous 10 seconds for hugs), and where to place your hands (on top of the table, visible). During visits, prisoners can only use the bathroom at certain times. Guards roam the room, scolding people for basic acts of affection, like touching an arm above the elbow or brushing their loved one’s hair out of their face. These simple displays pose no security risk, of course. On the contrary, physical touch is essential for building and maintaining healthy relationships.

Recently, four of my family members traveled hundreds of miles to visit me. When they arrived at the prison with my wife and mom, guards told them only five people could visit at a time. My mom left and returned to the Airbnb she’d rented near the prison so that my wife, who drove two hours to the prison, could stay. 

I asked a guard why he couldn’t make an exception to a policy that’s rarely enforced unless the visitation room is short on space. On this particular day it was barely half-full. The guard was dismissive and resolute. He’d turned away kids trying to visit their dads, he said. I told him he should be ashamed.

On its website, Washington State’s Department of Corrections claims to recognize the “vital role families play in the reentry process” and to support us “in maintaining ties with family, friends, and the community” through visitation.

The department’s policy is right. Or, at least, it’s worded that way. 

If we want incarcerated people to have a chance at building and maintaining healthy relationships once they’re released, they must have opportunities to do so on the inside. But the department’s actions speak louder than their words. If this is a priority for them, why does it feel like they’re so intent on compromising our human connections—and humanity—at every turn?

ICYMI—From The Appeal

For years, federal investigators, lawmakers, immigrants, and advocates have called for officials to close Winn Correctional Center, anImmigration and Customs Enforcement jail in Louisiana. Yet Biden’s administration extended its contract.