Angel on the Inside

By Victoria Shinagel

ANGEL ON THE INSIDE is a personal account of understanding. It
is a memoir illuminating the unlikely places where we find mentors from whom we learn
our most valuable lessons.

From white privilege to prison, it is only through incarceration that Shinagel is gifted her
freedom. In solitary confinement she is alone and invisible; in D Block she is scared and
vulnerable; in C Block she is curious and willing; in minimum she is still scared; she finds
hope; she learns to trust; she begins to understand; and finally she finds freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664177475

Victoria Shinagel

Victoria Shinagel was 51 years old when a dramatic turn of events altered the course of her life. Born in Cambridge Massachusetts, in the heart of Harvard Square to academic parents, She had all the intellectual opportunities at her hand. Educated at the University of Vermont and Harvard University she excelled in physical achievements as a marathon runner, body builder, Black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and competitive down hill ski racer, these accomplishments are not what made her. Her career as an executive in the furniture industry in Asia and the U.S was a turning point for women in business. Only a six by nine foot cell of cinder block and concrete could do for her what her privileged life could not.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Victoria Shinagel.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

The drawings found in the book were drawn by the author herself during her

time in prison.

Rev. date: 06/14/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

827000

This memoir is

dedicated to all the women on the inside.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1   Inmate 142027

Chapter 2   Six-by-Nine

Chapter 3   D Block

Chapter 4   C Block

Chapter 5   The Menu

Chapter 6   The Yard

Chapter 7   Lockdown

Chapter 8   Excluded

Chapter 9   Minimum

Chapter 10   False Hope

Chapter 11   Taking the Rap

Chapter 12   My GED

Chapter 13   Their GED

Chapter 14   Guilty

Chapter 15   My Angel

Chapter 16   Bend, Stretch, and Cough

Chapter 17   The Librarian

Chapter 18   Brown Plastic Rectangle

Chapter 19   Picasso

Chapter 20   Victory

Chapter 21   Come Together

Chapter 22   The Twelve Days of Christmas

Chapter 23   My Bid Was Up

CHAPTER

1

INMATE 142027

Hey, kid, take these! Mama D. walked away after handing me a toothbrush, a bar of soap, and a carefully folded brown paper towel containing instant coffee, powdered creamer, and sugar.

I was in prison. I would be there for the next five months of my life.

This had not been part of my plan.

I had a successful career.

I had a great education.

I had a loving family.

I had a wonderful marriage.

I had trusted friends.

I had fancy cars.

I had lavish homes.

I had affectionate cats.

I had traveled the world.

I had flown in private jets.

I had, I had, I had, and I had no idea I was about to learn exactly what I did not have.

Three weeks prior, I’d found myself in solitary confinement, not knowing why I was there. A six-by-nine-foot cell of cinder block and concrete. No windows, no pillow, and no sheets. A steel bed bolted to the floor, a one-piece metal toilet and sink in the corner, and a locked door with a bean slot, a locked slot to be opened only by the guards and to be unlocked only for a guard to push a tray of food in or for me to put my hands out to be handcuffed.

There was no way to know what time it was or how much time had passed. There were no sunrises to breathe in as I anticipated the day, no sunsets to breathe out as I considered the day, no dishes to do, no phones to answer, no televisions to watch, no radios to listen to, no dogs to walk, no litter boxes to empty, no plants to water, no beds to make, no meals to prepare, no laundry to fold, and no garbage to take out.

I was scared. I was hungry. I was thirsty. I could not breathe. I was tired. I was alone.

My thoughts were not clear. I was certain of only this:

I could not get out.

I could not escape.

I could not remove myself.

I could not change.

I could not negotiate.

I could not argue.

I could not debate.

I could not manipulate.

I could not control.

I was alone in a six-by-nine cell. I had no idea what day it was or what time it was. The cell smelled of dirt and urine. The fluorescent light on the ceiling flickered as though it were poorly connected or had a short. The metal-gray paint was chipped on the cinder-block walls, and there were scratches in the door with the locked slot, as if those before me had been clawing to get out. The concrete floor was smooth, yet the stains of years of pain seem to afford it texture. It was cold. I was wearing orange. Later, I would learn that the color designated an inmate in segregation—in prison speak, SEG. The bra was too small, the underwear was too big, and the socks were dirty. I had no shoes.

Suddenly, I was jolted out of my assessment of my situation.

Shinagel! she bellowed, unlocking the slot in the door.

My heart raced, my breath shortened, and my back stiffened as I faced the door.

It was my first tray of food. What time was it? How long had I been there? How had I gotten there?

Take it, or you don’t eat! she barked as she banged the rectangular brown plastic tray in the slot.

I leaped forward to grab the tray as fear raced through me. I gasped as I dropped it onto the floor. I was too weak and disoriented to manage it. The tray of food, the smell, the cell, the loud commands— it was too much.

I started to cry. I said, Ma’am, it’s on the floor.

Then eat it off the fucking floor! she barked as she slammed and locked the slot in the door.

I sat on the pain-stained concrete floor, crying, staring at a pile of slop, a carton of milk, and four slices of white bread strewn on the floor in front of me.

I had been in many cities in the world, and I had witnessed hunger and desperation. I felt grateful I had never eaten out of a garbage can or dumpster or off the street. I felt grateful I’d never had to wonder when my next meal would be.

But as I sat there considering what would be the inevitable, I realized I had not given any consideration to those people—the children, the drug addicts, the teenagers, the homeless, the drunks, and the mentally challenged, or 5150s in prison speak. You know, those people. The ones you walk by as you say to yourself, those poor people, or that is so sad. You hand them the change from the bottom of your purse or a dollar from your pocket, and you say, Here. Take this.

But as soon as you pass by, they are out of sight and out of mind. Did you really help them? No. You acknowledged that they were not invisible—that is all. In solitary, I was invisible. In fact, my existence was recognized only by whatever correctional officer (CO) was on duty at the time to push the brown rectangular tray through the locked slot in the locked door.

Suddenly, I found myself faced with hunger, not knowing when I would get my next meal, and the one available was on the floor in front of me. I was alone. I was invisible.

I ate it.

We are all in prison, whether a correctional facility because we got caught by the authorities or a mental prison because we have a conscience. The prison is of our own making, whether determined by a court of law or our own moral compass. We make assumptions; we pass judgment. We are who we are because of our menu. A menu offered to us as we learn to talk, walk, pee in a toilet, say please and thank you, and understand right from wrong. A menu we are offered to navigate life. Those who provide this menu were offered a menu too. They pass on the menu they accepted and have used to make decisions and choices. We accept that menu to be truthful and right. We are taught that information is absolute. We operate in the world