In July, New York Gov. Kathy Hochul announced the budget-related closings of two very different maximum security men’s prisons upstate. There was Great Meadow Correctional Facility, which had earned the nickname Gladiator School because of its high number of cuttings, stabbings and assaults. And there was Sullivan, the relatively “sweet” correctional facility where I had been housed for nearly four years.
I arrived at Sullivan with about 25 years of prison under my belt, so I was always going to look over my shoulder. But this place had a different tempo. There was very little violence. Most of the general population knew one another from other prisons, and we had a sense of community. This allowed me to focus more on my education and self-development. Even the cells were larger than average, with hot and cold water, a lukewarm radiator to combat the cold, and a little window to open or close by turning a small knob.
I heard about the closure right after an inspiring visit with my wife and my honorary mother, who I’d met 25 years prior through an ad I placed for a pen pal.
The Sullivan announcement put a temporary halt to some short-term goals I’d set, reminding me once again that I have no control over my life. My thoughts became consumed with wondering. I wondered what prison I’d be transferred to and if the transition would be smooth. I wondered how relocation would affect my wife’s and family’s visits because of distance and finances. I also wondered if I’d lose the 14 college credits I’d accumulated toward my associate degree.
I was drafted out of Sullivan on Sept. 19. My final destination was Shawangunk Correctional Facility in Wallkill, but like many others, I had to go through Green Haven’s transit block first. This men’s lockup in Stormville had taken on a tremendous load from Downstate Correctional Facility when that prison was closed in 2022.
What I thought would be no more than a three-day holdover at Green Haven turned out to be a 12-day punishment. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the inhumane conditions my peers and I had to endure.
I was escorted to H-Block by an officer I knew from years prior. As we walked down a tier that holds 42 prisoners, the smell of smoke and the sound of screaming assaulted my senses. I made eye contact with every staring face from inside of the cells I passed. We all were looking for a familiar friend or foe. Safety is always number one.
I was shocked at how disgusting my cell was. Guys had used toothpaste, food and even feces to write gang graffiti on the walls and ceiling. The toilet hadn’t been cleaned in what looked like months, and the sink was black with dirt, old food and wet toilet paper. I was afraid to touch anything. Had the officer not slammed the gate behind me, I would’ve refused to stay.
The loud chatter quieted if someone yelled a gang cadence that required the other members to respond and introduce themselves. Every set of the Bloods and Crips did this, making their presence known.
While this was going on, I was pacing back and forth, trying to get an anxiety attack in check because I was a heartbeat away from kicking the walls and yelling like a madman for the officer to get me out of that cell. The years I’d spent in Sullivan had sheltered me from just how bad things are in prisons now.
After collecting my thoughts, I placed the bedroll I’d carried under one arm on the mattress — the only clean surface in my cell.
I didn’t have any of my possessions. My clothes — and the other few things I own in this world — had been shipped directly to Shawangunk. I had planned to sacrifice whatever washcloth or towel I was issued to scrub the cell clean, but neither was provided.
I received one bedsheet, one torn and burned blanket, one roll of toilet paper and a small toothbrush with no toothpaste. I thought there had been a mistake, but I overheard other guys complaining about the same thing. It became apparent that this was standard issue.
Desperate, I salvaged a discarded plastic glove that was lying on the tier floor and cleaned the toilet and sink with it. I cleaned the walls as best as I could with my only sheet. I was using a small, motel-sized soap, quietly gagging through it all. I might have fainted had anything dripped on my skin or face.
Before the night was over, more prisoners came on different buses from further up north, like Attica, Clinton and Auburn. This meant more gang calls, more loud conversations and more joyful reunions among old friends. Because men screamed all through the night, I was unable to sleep for more than two hours. I did a lot of praying to go home, sitting on the edge of my bed and watching the roaches run up and down the walls.
During my first 72 hours at Green Haven, I had to stay in my cell. That meant no phone calls, no showers and no kiosk to send and receive messages from my loved ones.
I was allowed a shower after that time passed, but I still didn’t have a towel, a change of clothes, fresh underclothing or shower slippers. I was expected to just jump barefoot into what looked like mold, wash with an old, water-logged bar of soap, drip dry, and put on the same filthy clothes. Out of anger and disgust, I slammed my cell gate shut.
I was confused about why I was still in transit to a prison only 45 minutes away. I was angry at my peers for singing Lil Durk, Maxwell and reggae songs instead of making demands for the basic essentials like toothpaste and changes of clothes.
One person in my area, due to his inability to articulate his frustration, acted out the only way he knew how: He set a fire. I thought this man was crazy when I first saw the flicker of a large flame reflecting off of the housing unit window in front of our cells. But when the officers came to put out the fire, the man used their attention to complain about how he hadn’t been able to take a shower for seven days. I didn’t agree with his method, but I understood. Others encouraged his behavior, but I sat on the edge of my bed, sad, with my head in my hands.
The rest of my peers only seemed concerned with the tobacco and synthetic marijuana that they rolled up in writing paper. They were vigorous in their complaints, but once they got their hands on what they wanted, they’d fall back until they needed more of what they were fiending for.
Every day, a short guy from the Sumner projects in Brooklyn who weighed no more than 130 pounds would scream at 3 a.m., begging for a sprinkle of tobacco and a light. He’d argue with the other guys he had just woken up, telling them how he’d kick their asses when he was out of his cell. His irrational behavior made it clear to me that he was struggling.Thankfully, when he came out, he always apologized and would tell some funny story to get everyone laughing.
I’m 50 years old, and I’ve been incarcerated since I was 20. With my worsening health conditions, I felt pain in my back and lower abdomen, but I didn’t speak up for fear of prolonging the transit process. In the 12 days it took me to get through Green Haven, I could’ve walked to Shawangunk with the shackles on. Honestly, if that was an option, I would’ve done it.
When it was finally time to leave, I refused to sigh in relief until the shuttle bus exited the gates. The effects of Sullivan shutting down hadn’t sunken in yet, but my transit experience convinced me that closing Downstate was a bad thing. That prison worked on schedule, and at least it was clean. At Green Haven, men are quick to lash out with violence because of their frustration. They feel there’s nothing to lose. That whole setup is unsafe for prisoners passing through and security staff alike.
Walking into Shawangunk, I was ashamed of how I smelled and looked. I felt like I had been rescued from some horrible disaster. My voice cracked while I explained my back and stomach pain to the nurse. She told me that I’d be scheduled to see a doctor. I was grateful to hear that.
Once I was done with medical, I went to a housing unit where my peers quickly gave me new underclothes, soap, lotion, shower shoes and clean state-issued greens. Before sending some emails, calling my wife, and letting my family know I made it safely to my destination, I took a long hot shower. I couldn’t wash the transfer experience away, but at least I’d survived the unforeseen obstacles placed before me due to Sullivan’s closure.
LaMarr W. Knox is serving 62 ½ years to life at Shawangunk Correctional Facility. He has a time commutation application pending before Gov. Kathy Hochul.
The public information office of the New York State Department of Corrections and Community Supervision stated that it “transfers all incarcerated individuals to other state correctional facilities based on their security classification, as well as medical and mental health needs.” They also pointed to Directive #4917 and Directive #3081 in response to specific questions about the described conditions in Green Haven, including cell conditions and access to basic supplies.
