I’ve heard some loud things in my lifetime.
When I was seven years old, I vividly remember a fireworks display at Cooper Stadium in July. I felt every explosion resonating in my chest, my small body vibrating with the concussive force of each colorful shell.
When I was 23, I was working as a Public Health tech in the Air Force. Our job at the first airshow Dover AFB had hosted in years wasn’t too different from our typical day-to-day duties: Make sure the hot food is hot, the cold food is cold, distrubute ear pro and sunscreen to anyone who asked for it. I remember the Thunderbirds screaming off the runway, the sound of a VTOL jet hovering what felt like only a few feet away, and the screams of the crowd. That, was pretty loud.
I remember my first punk show in the basement of the First Unitarian Church in Philadelphia. My body pressed against the barricades while Sorority Noise played louder than any other band I’ve ever heard.
None of these, however, hold a candle to the sound of a heavy steel door slamming against reinforced concrete. None of these were as loud as hearing my cell door close for the first time.
It echoed. Where the concussive force of fireworks from my childhood memorably vibrated the inside of my chest, the noise inside of my cell rattled around the inside of my mind.
Nothing quiet happens in a jail cell.
The claustrophobic cacophony of your confines is a constant and inescapable (pun semi-intended) reminder of your position. It isn’t a good one.
Everything is amplified.
The magnetic whir of the lock to your module unbinding itself from steel and stone so that a guard can perform “checks” every fifteen minutes; the wibble-wobble of a broken wheel on the cart bringing you the next tray of what can only charitably be called food; an inmate on the other side of the module, on a different floor, tries in vain to quietly clear their throat; a kid a decade younger than you in the cell next door cries, prays, and falls silent — the most heartbreaking echo so far.
Before my imprisonment I was already staunchly abolitionist. The short amount of time I spent inside that wretched place only invigorated my beliefs. How can we subject anyone to such an environment for any stretch of time. What benefit does it serve to any of us, regardless of which side of the concrete and steel we find ourselves on? How can any person of good conscience sentence their own to the echoes?