Prison is a realm of extreme unknowns. A walk to the mess hall can erupt in a 10-man brawl. A sunny morning in the yard can escalate into gas canisters being fired from the watchtower.
This past July, I was taken by a different kind of surprise when a fellow incarcerated man came into my quiet cellblock and screamed at the top of his lungs, “Attention A-South! Sullivan will be closing by November 7th!”
Around the block, low grumbling turned into nervous chatter. I jumped out of my stiff bed and walked up to the gray bars of my cell. I stood there for a few minutes in utter shock. I had known that several New York state prisons were up for closure under Gov. Kathy Hochul’s budget plan, but I never expected Sullivan Correctional Facility to be one of them.
Sullivan was a small, maximum security prison in Fallsburg with a population of around 500. With relatively low violence, clean cells and a successful college program, prisoners dreamt of having the opportunity to be housed there. I stayed there for about three years.
As the reality of the closure started to sink in, I felt pangs of anxiety. I wasn’t worried about where I’d end up — the three years and seven months I’d spent in Attica prepared me for any environment. My fear emanated from the loss of relationships I’d cultivated during my time at Sullivan.
Like society, prison is a melting pot of different communities. Common interests draw individuals together, and they build long-lasting bonds. Sometimes, these relationships are deeper than family ties. When those relationships are upended, it can be tough to deal with.
After hearing news of the closure, I attended my last Social Work in Today’s World class of the semester. Questions swirled around the room. Everyone seemed defeated. Even the professor was shocked by the decision.
I was sitting at a table with two men I had developed a relationship with over the years. One was Darrell Powell — or Shahid as he is known in prison. We met in Attica, and at Sullivan, we were members of the Muslim community. Shahid is also a fellow writer.
“On to the next one,” he said in a tone hardened by the decades he’s spent in prison.
“Yeah, you’re absolutely right,” I responded, masking my worries with a nonchalant attitude.
The other man at the table looked at me with serious eyes. Andre Smith — who goes by his middle name, Shariff — had spent the past 23 years behind bars and was highly respected among our peers and the staff. He seemed to be contemplating his next words. “Just continue to do what you’re doing and stay focused,” he finally said.
I thought about how my hours-long conversations in the mosque with Shahid and Shariff would be coming to an end. How, soon, we wouldn’t get the opportunity to walk around the yard countless times and talk about what we’d do if we got the opportunity to return to society.
When class was over, I returned to my cellblock. Fellow prisoners were lingering around speaking about the news. I skipped the conversations, went to my cell and used my tablet to email my best friend. In all caps, I wrote that Sullivan was closing and that I had no clue where I’d end up because the department of corrections doesn’t tell prisoners where they’re headed. I turned on my radio and the local news was reporting on the closure. No more prisoner rumor mill — this was happening. And fast.
A few days after the announcement, I headed to an advanced writing workshop I was a part of. It was created a few months prior and included published writers such as LaMarr W. Knox, Robert Lee Williams and Joseph Sanchez. As we sat with desks in a circle, the men talked about the news. I sat quietly and took it all in. The feelings around the room were mixed. Some were happy — they felt like the closing of any prison was good news. Some were confused. Others expected it. I listened intently to all of the thoughts and theories.
As the weeks went by, everyone tried to keep some sense of normalcy. People went to programs, counselors still held meetings with prisoners, officers still searched cells. But I began to lose my footing. I started spending more time in my cell trying to mentally prepare for the next chapter. I spent hours at a time going through my possessions trying to figure out what to keep and what to discard. I slept a lot. I jotted down my thoughts and feelings on my tablet — and then deleted them afterward.
In early September, I was sitting in the mosque with Shariff and a few others when Shahid rushed through the door. “I’m out of here tomorrow,” he announced. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he seemed ready.
We sat on the green wall-to-wall carpet for nearly three hours reminiscing and wondering where this journey would take us. As our time ended, I stood up and hugged Shahid. My friend. My brother in faith.
A week later, news got back to me that Shariff was leaving. I hurried to the mosque that evening to spend time with him and others. Afterward, he and I headed outside to walk the dimly lit yard one more time. “Make sure you keep in contact,” he said. He also reiterated his earlier advice to stay focused no matter where I ended up. “Go back!” an officer screamed, signaling the end of yard time. Shariff and I walked through the corridor and shook hands before going to opposite sides of the prison.
Another one of my brothers was gone.
Losing my brothers at Sullivan reminded me of difficulties I faced as a child. I grew up in Queens, New York, without any siblings. I had a hard time fitting in throughout my years in school because I was shy and often bullied. When I was accepted, it was by negative influences and gang members. This led to me joining the Crips at the ripe age of 13.
By 15, I’d been arrested three times — for assault, attempted robbery and robbery. In 2008, at 16, I committed a brutal murder, taking the life of a friend after I snapped during an argument. I was arrested for this crime nearly eight years later and sentenced to life in prison. I had no sense of meaningful community until I arrived at Sullivan in December 2021.
There, I was in college through Hudson Link for Higher Education in Prison. I coordinated the HIV/AIDS awareness program. I was the facilitator for the Muslim community. I was part of a writing workshop. Being a part of those groups created some of the most impactful moments of my life.
I’m not saying that I am against the closure of prisons. I truly do believe that in the fight for a more fair criminal justice system, some of our country’s archaic institutions need to shutter its doors. But there should be more thought put into these decisions.
I don’t need to see the numbers to tell you that Sullivan is less violent than Attica because I’ve lived it. I don’t need to tell you that Sullivan’s structure is more intact than Auburn’s because I’ve slept in both places. My three years in Sullivan showed me a different side of prison — one filled with hope and personal growth I didn’t see anywhere else.
I arrived at my new prison — Shawangunk Correctional Facility — at the end of September. I’d spent a hellish 10 days in a roach-infested cell in Green Haven Correctional Facility’s transit block and was relieved to finally settle in. I came in with a few guys from Sullivan who I had good relationships with, adding to the relief that I felt.
Later that evening, I walked to the large courtyard in the middle of my new cellblock in a haze. As my vision adjusted to the orange glow of night lights, I looked over to a small crowd of men talking. Staring back at me with a huge grin on his face was Shahid.
Maybe my community wasn’t lost after all.
Rashon Venable is a published poet and essayist. He is currently incarcerated at Shawangunk Correctional Facility in Ulster County, New York. At Sullivan prison, he was a leader in the Muslim community and he served as a coordinator for Prisoners for AIDS Counseling and Education.
The assistant director of public information from the New York State Department of Corrections and Community Supervision stated that they have “no information of Green Haven Correctional Facility having a cockroach issue.”
