(*This story first appeared in Prison Writers at prisonwriters.com and has been republished here with permission of the author)

It’s sometimes hard to think of things to be grateful for when I’m quite literally caged inside the confines of these fences. One thing that I am thankful for on a regular basis is that I’m a woman, and because of that, am afforded the luxury of being housed in a

women’s facility. ‘Luxury” may feel like a strong word choice, but the polarizing differences between men’s and women’s facilities grant me the latitude.

Men’s facilities are overwhelmingly racially segregated, savagely violent, gang infested, and sexual assaults present a very real problem. Women’s facilities on the other hand, are a sort of twisted purgatory where the weigh station I’m stuck in is an eerie throwback to high school. I went to a high school that was a hybrid of Mean Girls, The Craft, and Carrie. Its tough, but there’s not a huge fear of sodomy or rape, so I’m thankful.

To be fair I can only speak to my own lived experience, and for me that consists of 15 1/2 years of incarceration at Michigan’s one and only female prison facility. The racial makeup of the (approx) 1800 women that make up my community — aside from a small Latin and even smaller Asian population making up less than 200 people combined, unlike the national statistical evidence — is pretty even, half and half in regards to black and white. Race is always going to be an issue and barbed wire can’t stop that. My facility doesn’t segregate races in housing, on a unit or even at an individual cell-level basis.

My prison doesn’t have gangs — although a few years ago there was a group of chow hall workers that dubbed themselves GGW (Girls Gone Wild). Pretty hard core, and in my twilight zone endless loop of high school environment, the labels ‘gang’ and ‘security threat group’ (STG) were tossed around. Aside from those renegades, this has historically been a gang-free zone.

There is, however, a phenomenon within female prison systems, to create a ‘family.’ They’re both extensive and extended; with members filling the roles of moms, dads, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, brothers; even step- and in-laws. They are disturbingly strange and often incestuously intertwined; because although sexual assault isn’t a problem, same-sex domestic partnerships are all the rage.

I view the family relationship in prison as a form of manipulation, and often control. I’m in an extreme minority, given the amount of time I have served without falling into anyone’s family tree. Honestly, I’ve always thought it disparaging to my legitimate family to just replace them with available stand-ins. If my aunt were to randomly adopt someone as a replacement niece I’d be heart-sore, and I believe the sentiment translates.

I also have seen matriarchs (or patriarchs) of these families round up the crew to sic them on an enemy. Not an enemy of the entire family unit, but an enemy to the leader. Family members are expected to be ready to show “loyalty,” to jump into the fray and fight, in complete disregard to whatever may be happening in your own personal life. I refuse to be reduced to being someone’s muscle, lol. This sounds like mafia vibes, but let me just assure you that nobody is going around demanding cases of Ramen for protection taxes or anything dramatic like that. Most people view these families as a security blanket, even a way to belong.

In the later portion of my prison sentence, I’ve found that I’m often solitary. Obviously having been a member of this community for so long — in fact my bunkie’s girlfriend recently referred to me as a grandfather item — the people I’ve been doing time around know how I move. To those that don’t know me, I give the impression of an unapproachable bitch; in all reality I have a deep and unwavering sense of loyalty to my community.

It’s accepted that I’m a nerd, smart as a whip, sarcastic and caustic, and that I’ll always have a good book. Others know to just ignore my screaming at the TV during Michigan football games. I appreciate that the women I’m housed inside this nightmare with afford me the space to be my most authentic self. A perk to being a grandfather item, I suppose, is I know everyone’s ancient secrets, but in gratitude for the space to be myself, I’ll keep them buried.

I’m not trying to paint a picture here that I am without connections within my community, because that would be false. I’ve ripped and run, laughed, grieved, struggled and triumphed with an assortment of characters over the years. It’s just that the path I’m now on doesn’t align with many of theirs. To protect myself, I’ve had to separate myself. I’m part of the less than 1% of the population enrolled in a Bachelor’s program, as well as part of the less than 5% that has chosen the path of higher education at all. I simply cannot afford to get dragged down by prison high jinks. There is just too much that I stand to lose.

Knowing that I myself am sufficient, that my feet can be trusted to hold me up, quenches any nostalgic desire to run along old paths with old friends. Being surrounded constantly by crowds of people while feeling entirely alone is a paradox that’s become a norm for me the past few years. My most often felt identifier throughout the entirety of my experience of incarceration has been “uncomfortable.”

Many may fail to see the beauty in that, but I don’t. Somehow, throughout the tenure of my incarceration, I’ve managed to stay inherently true to me; to not fall prey to families or cliques; to be the nerd attending a University wrapped in barbed wire. I’ve managed to continue evolving instead of getting stuck in the mass of conformity. I most certainly will never be mistaken for someone’s fake sister, cuz-o, or te-te.

I remain me.

ASHLEIGH CORTNEY SMITH #698500
Women’s Huron Valley Correctional Facility
3201 Bemis Road
Ypsilanti, MI 48197-0911