wanted to die . . . anything to get out of that place.
I finally managed to calm down and swiftly became aware of the chill in the air coming in through the entrance’s open bars. As I stood up and walked to my room, the music was at full blast, burning incense filled the cellblock, and baby Jesus was brought in by “The Three Wise Men.” I climbed into my part of the lower bunk bed and, exhausted, at long last fell asleep. It was 7:30 p.m. The party lasted until midnight and I slept right through it. I think I asked God to let me sleep forever that night.
—
As the days of my first week in prison proceeded, I slowly fell into the prison routine. Four a.m. head count, sleep a few more hours, get up, wait in line for a freezing shower, add my name to the phone call list, and busy myself as best I could to endure another day without freedom. On weekdays, Mimi let us watch local television channels from 3 p.m. to 10 p.m., the general preference being the news and soap operas. Our cellblock’s go-to series on one of the TVs was El Señor de los Cielos, a Mexican series about an infamous drug trafficker that had many on the edge of their seats. Later, from 10 p.m. to midnight, a nightly religious vigil was held inside the cellblock near the main entrance. The women would pray and sing, filling the night’s silence with a bit of joy. It was quite beautiful.
On my second morning, I was called to the warden’s office, where I was officially registered as a prisoner. From now on, if anyone inquired about my criminal record, it would show that I was an inmate in Santa Teresa. With wet hair, no makeup, and enlarged eyes from crying the night before, I was fingerprinted and then told to stand against a height chart with my inmate number in hand while my picture was taken. I was now an official inmate.
My new roommate Mariana was also being registered that morning. As we got to talking, I learned that she had come here like the rest of us, with nothing but the clothes on her back, while her fifteen-year-old son had also been taken into custody. Mariana was a foreigner, had no family in Guatemala, no money, and no way to contact her child. She told me she had been living in Guatemala with her partner and her fifteen-year-old son from another marriage. She claimed that her partner had gone out to buy sodas on December 31, and had never returned; his burned body turned up on the property where they lived on January 1. The next day, the police came to take her and her son away, charging them with the man’s murder, based on a neighbor’s statement claiming that the couple fought a lot. After having experienced firsthand how the Attorney General’s Office had come after me, I was now readily inclined to believe an inmate rather than our own attorney general. Little did I know how many more similar heart-wrenching stories I would hear during my stay in prison. It changed my life forever.
Later that day, as I roamed around the prison compound, I bumped into a young, tall American woman whom I had noticed the day before. “Are you Anaité?” she asked, and I nodded. “I have a message from a fellow Rotary member who asked me to find you and let you know that everyone is in disbelief and outraged by what they are doing to you!” She introduced herself as Ashley Williams and even though she was not an inmate in Santa Teresa, she spent most of her time here because she ran a screen-printing company (Serigrafía) inside the prison. Ashley didn’t remember the person’s name, but her message brought me joy. I spent the rest of the afternoon at Serigrafía chatting away with Ashley, who told me I was welcome there anytime I wanted to sit down, read, write, or relax.
Serigrafía is located in the same section of the prison that houses Social Services, encamamiento, the infirmary, and the inmate maternity ward. The general prison population, which includes me, does not have access to that area, but I had received authorization from Lili from encamamiento and now Ashley from Serigrafía, so I was the exception to the rule.
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