In three decades of incarceration I’ve seen many things that are a far cry from what the system presents to the outside world. But few things have felt more surreal than watching, three times a day, dozens of men racing across the compound to the chow hall because not all of them are going to get to eat.
South Central Correctional Facility, one of the four Tennessee state prisons privately operated by CoreCivic, is one of many prisons across the country currently run by gangs rather than by corrections officers. But this particular prison is structured so that two of the living units are at the bottom of a hill, away from the rest of the buildings. About two-thirds of the people assigned to those cells are gang-affiliated, and the rest are newcomers or other unaffiliated prisoners who are simply unlucky. About 500 people altogether, grouped into pods of 128 people. Each pod is released one at a time to go to the chow hall—which is about 50 yards away.
Each time the gates open, out runs the first wave—at least 20 or 30 people flat-out sprinting as fast as they can. In the next wave behind them are the people who are either unwilling or unable to run, but who are walking very quickly. Finally, trailing behind everyone else are the gang-affiliated prisoners, who stroll at a leisurely pace. Once they get to the chow hall, regular kitchen service stops—they head to the front of the line and take tray after tray until they’re done. At least two trays each, but three or four if it’s one of the less-awful meals like hot dogs or chicken patties.
Staff stands by and watches. Once the kitchen runs out of food, the pickup window is closed, and that’s that. If you didn’t get any food, you’ll just have to run faster next time.
Each pod houses 128 people, but not all of them go to chow; only the ones who have no other option. So Trinity Services Group, the private contractor in charge of food service here, allocates enough food for maybe 100 trays for each pod’s mealtime, rather than 128; this is a common practice in prisons regardless of which contractor they use. But the portions are getting smaller and smaller. Multiple kitchen workers told Filter that they’re given smaller serving ladles than what the menu calls for. Nobody could get full from just one tray anymore. CoreCivic and TKC Holdings, Trinity’s parent corporation, did not respond to Filter‘s request for comment.
The food itself is repulsive. In the 10 years I’ve been at this facility there’s never been fresh fruit—even though it’s still provided at the state-run prisons. They have a different food service contractor, Aramark Correctional Services. But food quality is not the main concern for the unaffiliated folks at the bottom of the hill; they’re so hungry they’d eat just about anything.
“I was told one time, ‘As long as they’re killing each other and not us, leave them alone,'” one officer said. “So that’s what I do.”
Like in prisons across the country, many people incarcerated here are older or disabled or both, and they’re the ones who suffer most in this “survival of the fittest” nightmare where only the fastest and strongest get to eat.
The only other source of food is commissary, which sells actual food—junk food mostly, but edible, unlike what’s served at chow—at prices far higher than most can afford. There are very few jobs available at this facility, and they pay mere pennies per hour. I live in the pod where many of the people with jobs are grouped together, and less than half of us go to chow. But at the bottom of the hill, I’d say more than 80 percent go to chow. And for those who can afford to buy commissary, keeping it can be just as big a problem.
Neil*, in his 30s, is one of the runners. He doesn’t have much choice. Recently he went to pick up his weekly commissary order and was escorted back to his cell by four gang-affiliated prisoners holding shanks to his back.
“They took everything,” Neil told Filter. “Even my shoes.”
How can all this happen? Understaffing. There are so few corrections officers, responsible for too many prisoners, with little-to-no backup. They’re overwhelmed, and afraid for their lives.
“I come in every day and pray I get out alive,” one officer told Filter. “If you complain about the conditions, you’re just laughed at, like you’re not supposed to be scared. I was told one time, ‘As long as they’re killing each other and not us, leave them alone.’ So that’s what I do.”
One prisoner told Filter that in more than 20 years at this facility, he’s never seen anything like this.
“Gang members come to the chow hall in the PJs,” he said. “If the police can’t control something that small, what are they going to do about the big stuff?”
Many at the bottom of the hill are struggling to get enough food to stay alive. But they’re also struggling just to find somewhere to live.
Fred entered his cell and locked the door. Within 15 minutes, an officer had unlocked it and let three gang-affiliated prisoners inside.
Fred*, in his 40s, recently arrived at South Central and went to find his assigned cell. When he got there, he found two other prisoners already living there. One had two black eyes, and the other had a split lip and cuts across his face. Gang-affiliated prisoners had told them to live in that cell.
Fred thought that maybe the best solution was for the three of them to live there, so he joined the other two inside and locked the door. Within 15 minutes, an officer arrived. He unlocked the door, let three affiliated prisoners enter the cell, and then left.
“They just started snatching my stuff,” Fred said. “When I tried to push back I soon found a shank [at] my back and my face pushed up against the wall.”
After they’d taken everything and left, Fred reported the incident, but staff refused to get involved. The next morning when his unit was called to the chow hall for breakfast, he didn’t get there fast enough to get a tray.
Fred tried asking medical staff about checking into protective custody—solitary confinement—because it seemed like the only way he’d be able to eat. Medical staff called the captain, who told Fred that no one was being checked into protective custody that day.
Fred is actually lucky. He has an option most people in his position don’t have: He can afford protection fees. Or rather, his family can. He called them and explained the situation, and begged them to send money to the people victimizing him. His family now pays $100 a week, and in return gang-affiliated prisoners no longer rob Fred, and make sure no one else robs him either. The weekly $100 fee still doesn’t buy Fred a tray at the chow hall. But now that he can keep the food he buys from commissary, life is more manageable.
Most people can’t afford weekly commissary, however, let alone weekly protection fees.
At any prison, it’s more and more common for newcomers to be robbed of all their property—even their thin mattress pads—the day they arrive. Then rather than their assigned cells, they’re forced to sleep in the halls or bathrooms or on the stairs.
There’s an old saying that describes a prisoner’s existence: “three hots and a cot.” Meaning that in prison the only things we’re entitled to are food and a place to sleep. How can the state justify handing us over to private contractors that don’t even provide those anymore?
*Names have been changed to protect sources.
Image (cropped) via Washington Office of the Corrections Ombuds