Prison Stories
My First Thanksgiving in the State Penitentiary
An unexpected lesson in the power of generosity
It might not be the Plymouth Colony pilgrims and the Wampanoag tribe, wildfowl and popcorn, but my first Thanksgiving in a state prison had a few echoes of that famous feast.
Seven years ago, I was 19, fresh upstate, and didn’t know nothing about anything. My commissary account — the money I’d use to purchase approved food and cosmetic items biweekly — was virtually nonexistent. Every money order my family sent was diverted towards “surcharges,” or various administrative fees connected to my conviction. My monthly 35-pound food package from home was long gone. Bottom line: I was broke. With Thanksgiving just a few days away, my holiday plan was to walk through the frigid mountain air from my cell to the mess hall to choke down whatever provisions New York State would provide for lunch and bring back a few bologna sandwiches for dinner.
I was more fortunate than some in that I worked in the mess hall. Oftentimes when we were finished serving the other inmates (approximately 800 people), the workers were allowed to split up the leftovers. One day, with the holiday approaching, I returned to my dorm with a few spare slices of pizza in my possession. As I walked into the dorm, an older…
