Today was a Sunday, and in the State Prison outside Denver, Colorado, the prisoners sat up on their beds, impatiently awaiting the arrival of the guards. When the heavy doors of their cells opened, they would be allowed to leave the prison to perform outside work. The prisoners were paid twenty cents an hour to work on the railroads that crossed the rocky landscapes of Colorado. It was dangerous work, but at least they were paid for it, and would be able to collect their money once they had served their sentence. More than anything, going out to work was a chance to forget the horrors of prison life: the wrists slashed with razors, the beatings in the showers, the threats whispered in the night. Out there they could at least breathe the fresh air of the Rocky Mountains amidst that rough-hewn, wooded landscape that set the mind to wandering. All of a sudden they heard keys jangling, locks opening and bars sliding back with a screech.
The Colorado Mountains were dangerous, and the prisoners knew that rocks and boulders might tumble down on them at any moment. Twenty cents an hour was pittance in such conditions, especially when they knew that the great titans of American industry had been investing in the same penitential system that employed them: prisons made a lot of money for such men, and the cheap labour provided by the prisoners allowed them to reduce the cost of their projects – such as the construction of a railway line across the perilous rock hills of Colorado. Still they sang, and breathed the free air of spring. They worked in groups, and in teams. Their hands were dirty and swollen red, covered with blisters and cracks. Many of those hands belonged to former drug dealers: the imposition of long prison sentences for the possession microscopic amounts of illegal drugs was widespread in Colorado, especially for black offenders. Federal law required five years in prison without the possibility of parole for the mere possession of five grams of crack or three ounces of heroin, and ten years for the possession of less than two ounces of cocaine. The ultimate winner was Wall Street and its multi-million dollar industries, funnelling money up the chain by building and maintaining prisons: all those construction companies, investment banks, plumbing supply companies, catering services, safety equipment and bulletproof vests, and cells padded in a wide variety of colours. Prison was a business, a racket that traced its origins back to the days of slavery, when workers sang for enfranchisement and liberty.
“Say, what’re you gonna do when you get out in ten years?” one of the African-American inmates asked.
“Gonna open me a restaurant,” another replied.
“Barber shop.”
“I’m gonna start a dry cleaners for the folks that can’t afford a laundry machine.”
“Get a move on!” the guard yelled. “This ain’t no time for chit-chat. Time to go earn your twenty cents. Lot of money to pay a negro, you ask me.”
The prisoners didn’t answer, being well-used to such insults and daily mockery. There was no sense in reacting, for that was just what the guards wanted: an excuse to beat on a prisoner in self-defence, like the crafty animals they were. Many of the inmates hoped to get their sentences reduced for good behaviour, and were polite and courteous to the guards. Tonight they would sleep easy, after a day full of fresh air. Their slumber would be long and deep, and what better sight to dream of than the Rocky Mountains of Colorado?
Alan Alfredo Geday