When I Did Time, I Was–Legally, Officially–Enslaved
BACK IN THE LATE ’90S, I OWNED A SID NUMBER (12218354) and an address in an Oregon state prison. For part of my biddy prison bid—the old heads said my time was short fore I got there—I worked as an orderly in a mental ward of the Oregon State Hospital. The official duties included sweeping and mopping the halls, changing sheets soiled with feces and/or soaked with urine, and making beds tucked with tight hospital corners.
The unofficial duties included learning to at least feign aplomb when residents tossed food trays, tantrumed to the point of restraint, or screeched refusals of their meds.
On the up and up, it wasn’t a job I would’ve appreciated on the outs, but on the inside, I was a pair of praying hands—and furthermore envied by no few fellow prisoners for being allowed to leave the confines of the farmhouse-turned-prison that held us captive.
