Chaos and Noise: One Man's Harrowing Stint in Solitary Confinement

Locked in the hole without explanation, Christopher Blackwell tries desperately to hold onto the pride and positivity he’s worked so hard to preserve.

Without further ado, we’re beyond thrilled to share with you the Grand Prize-winning essay of our 2023 Memoir Prize, Christopher Blackwell’s piece about the routine horrors he witnessed during a spell in solitary. Christopher is his own words: “This story was written before I had even published a single piece of writing. It was a story based on frustration, anger and pain. Throughout the years, I’ve written it over and over as I continue to learn and grow as a writer. It was a story I simply couldn’t let go of — a story I knew one day would live in the world. I use my writing to highlight inequalities and harm, and I use that to humanize those of us who reside behind these towering walls and endless rows of razor-wire fences. Winning the Narratively 2023 Memoir Grand Prize lets me know just how important these stories are — and that everything we do to highlight them matters. It’s an honor to be in community with other writers who’ve been recognized for their work on such an incredible level.” 

Illustrations by Molly Magnell

“Let’s go, you know the drill!” a guard yells.

I’m sitting in a tiny concrete cell as two guards begin the intake process of placing me in the hole, in solitary confinement. I know they will take everything in my possession, but I’m desperate to keep my phone book and photos of loved ones.

I remove my socks and shoes. My naked feet come into contact with the cold and filthy concrete floor, bits of dirt and grime and other prisoners’ bodily fluids sticking to my skin.

Though I have no choice but to comply, I hate myself for it. I strip all the way down. Once I’m fully naked, the guards look me up and down, and it takes all the strength I have to hold my head high, but I do. All I have left is my pride.

One of the guards looks at me and says, “Run your hands through your hair and shake it out. Now bend your ears so I can look behind them. Open your mouth. Run your finger through your gum lines. Now lift your arms, now your nuts. Turn around and bend over, spread ’em and cough. OK, let me see the bottoms of your feet. Get dressed.” The guard barking at me is emotionless in his commands.

Through the slot, the guard throws a worn-out orange jumpsuit and a roll of pink underclothes into my cell. I get dressed as quickly as I can, brimming with frustration and loathing, all the work I’ve done to transform myself into someone positive feels as if it might be erased. No one will tell me why I’ve been brought into solitary. I was simply cuffed and taken without explanation.

Next comes the so-called mental health exam.

“Am I OK? Do I feel like committing suicide?”

The staff member questioning me is flat, lacking any sense of compassion. This process is simply a formality. No one who works here would lose any sleep if I were to take my own life.

I have to be very careful as I answer these questions. If they believe I’m so much as thinking of hurting myself, they’Il send me somewhere even worse, a cell isolated from all other prisoners where I’d be stripped of absolutely everything. Even the orange jumpsuit and pink underwear would be taken away, replaced with a thick green cloth draped over me like a dress with a slit down the back. A suicide cell is not where I want to be.

I answer the questions as fast and honestly as I can. It’s not as if I want to hurt myself anyway. Unlike on the prison main line, in the hole, prisoners aren’t allowed to move anywhere without being handcuffed and escorted by two guards, attached to one of the guards by a dog leash. After the exam, I’m told to back up to the cell door so they can cuff me yet again.

The cell where they take me is empty. Two very thin pink blankets, two pink sheets, a pink pillowcase and a two-inch thick gray mattress. The shock has started to wear off, and reality has begun to set in. I have a long road ahead of me.