He had wrapped his belt around his throat

Tag : ladies's belt

Inmates in New York City's jails can't tell them apart. SukariBarnes and Tajiri Swindell are 33-year-old identical twins. Eachhas been a correction officer at Rikers Island and other jailsthroughout New York City for 12 years.
Much like its police and fire departments, New York City'scorrectional system has long been fed by familial networks. At onetime, men ushered their sons into careers as guards. But sincefemale officers were first permitted to work in men's jails almost30 years ago, the number of women entering the profession has beenon the rise. Today, nearly half of the city's COs are women.
On a spring evening, the twins sat in Tajiri's living room onStaten Island. Petite with oval faces and long black hair. Theywear pink. At 33, they have five little girls between them. Theywere joined by their mother, Joyce Gourdine, a retired deputywarden who'd encouraged them as teens to pursue careers incorrections.
Sukari Barnes: When we came on the job, I was 92 pounds soaking wet.
Tajiri Swindell: I was 98 pounds. We actually looked like we were 16.
SB: We were babies. If I saw somebody that looked like me come on thejob, I think I'd laugh.
TS: We find officers now that tell us they actually took betsthat—
SB: —we wouldn't make it.
TS: It's good having her and my mother with an understanding of thejob, because you have an outlet.
SB: Somebody to debrief you. If you do have a hard day, you need to beable to talk with somebody who understands what you're really goingthrough. At this point in corrections, I could tell you thateverybody that comes on now in some way is connected to someone whohas already been an officer or is an officer at this moment.
TS: It's not a bad job, and the pay has increased enormously.
SB: I cleared $80,000 last year.
TS: I cleared 86.
SB: It's a comfortable living.
Joyce Gourdine: When I first came on, women could only work with women. I wasgiven the survey when I was at the Brooklyn Courts in 1978, askingif I could work with men. I said, "Yes, I could." I was an officerat the time, and the captain told me, "You just ruined it for allthe women in the department." So I said, "Well, why is that?" Hesaid, "They're going to put you in with the men." That was supposedto scare me. I said, "Well, listen, if I get raped by a man, what'snew? If a man gets raped by a man, it's worse." So I said, "I thinkI could handle getting raped as much as you could."
TS: When I came onto the job, I found a new respect for what my motherdid. I didn't have any understanding, because my mother did awonderful job of not bringing it home with her. And then when Iwent into the academy, I said, "Mommy! I had no idea."
JG: It's a psychological thing. You have to psychologically rule. It'snot a physical thing. If you come in everyday and write people upand bring the riot squad down and everything, you're not doing yourjob properly. You have to learn how to individualize people anddeal with them mentally. Let them know you are not playing: "You will move when I say move." And then you make a believer out ofsomebody if you have to.
SB: There was a situation on Rikers Island in the recreation areawhere an inmate hurt himself. He's acting up, he's flipping out,going crazy: "Call the captain! I have to go to the hospital!" Andmy sister walked right over and said, "Are you okay?" Just thosethree words made him calm down. He looked up at her and said, "Ijust hurt my knee a little bit."
TS: All he wanted was a little attention! I said, "Oh, okay. You needsomething for your knee. Let's just go to the clinic."
JG: These are all murderers, rapists, serial killers! But when theyget in there, they're helpless because they can't do anything without your permission. You tell 'em when to get up, you tell 'emwhen to eat, when to sleep—
SB: —when to shower.
JG: You have to open their door. So they're really at your mercy. Andwe're all human beings.
SB: The phones are controlled. The food is controlled. The sleepingarrangements are controlled.
JG: Everything is controlled.
SB: Everything is controlled by you .
JG: I'm very proud of my daughters, because they've been on for 12years, and I know it's not an easy job. I know it's difficult, andI felt badly at first for even having to put them in, because Iknow what I went through, and it gets very raw in there. You seethe rawness in life.
SB: We're very rarely shocked.
JG: You try to raise ladies, and you know you're sending them intohell. You have to come back and keep your femininity about you.Know how to act a certain way. Know how to keep that wolf in youdown. Control that wolf. A lot of females couldn't keep a husband.You can't go home and rule. You can't be the boss. You have to be aboss on the job. When you go home, you have to be a lady.
SB: I remember the night before I entered the jails for the firsttime. My husband—we were engaged at the time—he took meout to dinner. He sat me down. Now he's never been in corrections,and he's telling me, "When you go in there, you got to be firm , just mean what you say. And I'm looking at him and say, "Are youscared for me?" He said, "yes."
TS: When I started dating my husband, I was already on the job. Hewould drive me to work, and I would get phone calls, and he'd say,"I saw an ambulance leave Rikers. Are you okay?"
JG: I come from a family of nine, so, you know, I kind of fend formyself. But you would be lying if you said you don't hit thatatmosphere and know you are out of your element.
TS: I pride myself on not being scared, and I was petrified! But youcannot show it.
SB: I remember my first time walking into the housing area on my own.I went in and I told myself—you know, you prep yourselfup—"They're human beings, they're human beings." I walked inand told the guys, "Sit on the bench for the counting." Someone atthe back of the house yelled, " F. U., B.! " It was like somebody just clicked a switch right on the back ofmy head. And I just became a completely different person, and I'vebeen that way since.
JG: [ Laughs ] She found out she was a bitch! I had a female tell me—whenI was in the hallway with a group of females—she took a knifeand said, "I'll cut your neck." She said, "I'll slit your fuckingthroat." I shut up. I said, "I don't think that would be a wisething."
SB: You know what you do after a situation like that? You debrief andcontinue your day. It becomes second nature.
TS: I had to put a guy's feet on my shoulders, because I was too shortto lift him up. He had wrapped his belt around his throat. To keephim from choking I had to push him up, and an officer climbed thebars.
SB: There's an area on Rikers Island, it's for sick people, theCommunicable Disease Unit, where they have to stay behind closeddoors and their food is given to them through a slot. They wouldput Saran Wrap around their food. [A prisoner] had apparently savedup his wrap. I got up and walked over to his cell, and I see thathe had paper lining his windows. All I could see is his feet on thefloor. When I went in there, he was laying face down with a towelover his head and a mattress on his back. We pull the towel off,and I see the plastic is completely over his face. His eyes areopen, and they're completely pale. Now this is a black man withbrown eyes, they're completely pale. So I jumped down, and I gotthis close, and I said, "You're going to breathe , M. F.!" I reached into his mouth, and I had to pull plastic fromthe back of his throat out. As soon as I popped it, it made asucking sound, and he went into a seizure. The doctor ran, thenurse ran, everybody just left me in there with this guy, and he'sjust shaking away. I go to the phone, and I call the control andsay, "I have an attempted suicide."
TS: You have to choose your battles. I found one inmate assaultinganother inmate. And it was a sexual assault. It was two males. Andhe looked up at me and said, "Sweetheart, what the fuck are yougoing to do? I'm doing 25 to life anyway." I stepped back and said,"He is absolutely right." Usually I would run in, but we're goingto have to wait for the squad on this one. Because that's a man ona man. I'm a woman. I walk in there, it's a done deal.
JG: Wait for the squad, that's right. You already walked far enough.What he's going to find out is some of those 25 years are going tobe a little more miserable than they have to be.
TS: Our privilege to carry firearms on the streets is to protectourselves, because these individuals do get released.
SB: My oldest daughter wasn't even two years old yet. I was in Queenswith my husband's aunt, and I was in a drugstore, and this guystarts following me through the store. He's following me throughthe store: "CO, CO!" And I heard him the first time, so I told myhusband's aunt, "Take my daughter out to the car. Because ifsomething were to happen..." And as soon as she got out to the car,I turned around and said, "What? Okay, so everybody knows I'm a CO.Now they know you're a crook. I'd rather them know I'm a CO. Wouldyou like them to know you're a crook?" And he just stood therestaring at me. I said, "You finished?" And he just walked away.
TS: You have to assert yourself the same way you would at work.
JG: You can just say hello though. You don't have to be a snob.
TS: You know, most of the time, you see them, they acknowledge you,you acknowledge them. In the world we call the small city of NewYork that contains five boroughs, they live amongst us.
JG: There's 22,000 of them out there.
SB: When you're fresh on the job, you're scared to see someone youknow [in jail]. I was doing the mess-hall feeding, and somebodystarted calling my first name. Inmates don't know you on afirst-name basis. My first reaction was to act like I didn't hearit, because if I turned, then everybody in there would know myfirst name. So I'm hearing it, and I'm just going on about mybusiness like I don't hear it.
JG: Well, why didn't you answer? That's impolite!
SB: Mommy, please!
JG: You have to be human!
SB: I was in the mess hall, Mom. I'm not going to have all theseinmates knowing my first name. If I did that, by the next day,every inmate in there would be like, "Sukari!" No, it's nothappening.
JG: Okay.
SB: When I saw that particular area was going to dump their trays, Ilooked in every last face. When I recognized that face, I knew thiswas a guy who didn't even speak to me in what they call "theworld." In New York, outside Rikers Island, we weren't evenfriends. He just knew my name. We went to school together.
TS: In jail, knowing a CO is like knowing a star. I ran into a guy onthe Staten Island Ferry that we went to high school with. He said,"I saw you in C95." I said, "When?" He said, "As soon as I saw youthere, I turned back and went to the housing area. I wasembarrassed to be there and didn't want you to see me."
JG: My nephew ran up to me and kissed me. He was an inmate. I'm notgoing to lie. I told him somebody was going to have a betterChristmas because he was in jail. I told him, "Look, you can't kissme!" I was the captain. I said, "You cannot kiss me, Tater!" Andthen he was being sent away, and I got permission to go see him. Hewas being sent away for four years. He had killed somebody. It wasfour months before he got killed&I loved my nephew. He was a thug. And he lived, and hedied for it. But I loved him, you know? Family's family, and thatcomes before everything.
SB: Now we're not allowed to wear any jewelry in the jail. I used towear, when I had my first daughter, you know those Sears chokers? Ihad one of those of my daughter. And on a search, I found thishumungous 8-by-10 replica, hand-drawn of this picture of mydaughter.
JG: They're very talented.
SB: They have nothing but time to observe you.
JG: They check you out.
SB: I looked at him, and he said, "Oh, I was going to give it to youon Mother's Day." I swore never to carry a picture of any of mychildren in jail again. It scared me.
TS: When [our daughters] get together, we've caught them playing CO.You know, saying, "My mommy's a CO. Let me show you how to search."
SB: My daughters ask me questions. They've come to pick me up fromwork. You see people come in in handcuffs. So my daughter said,"What did he do?" And I said, "I really don't know." She said,"I've never seen an inmate before." So I was telling her the otherday, "Well, you know, they're human beings."

Emily Voigt is a freelance writer in New York.