Truth can hurt, and prisons are already bottomless wells of pain and trauma. The need to tell the truth in the face of these pressures creates a unique conflict for incarcerated and also formerly incarcerated writers. The need to keep secrets, hold confidences, and protect the spot is extremely powerful in prison, a place of constant threat and surveillance from many quarters. “Don’t burn the spot, Piper!” was their entreaty, and while I was incarcerated I would never, ever have done so, for reasons both practical and principled. I remember rounding the corner of an outbuilding to find a huddle of nervous women sucking down smoke.
This cat-and-mouse game, one with serious consequences, affected all of us whether we were holding contraband or not. The hunt for spots to hide cigarettes and - more challenging - spots to actually smoke them was matched by the hunt of COs on the prowl for violators. Some of the women I was close with were addicted to nicotine, and many more would smoke out of boredom or to relieve the abundant stress found behind prison walls. This had a big impact on the culture of the unit where I lived, a minimum-security prison camp where women had a lot of access to the outdoors. Incarcerated tobacco enthusiasts had one month to smoke their brains out, and then cigarettes became contraband.
Of course, commissary first sold off all the remaining cartons of coffin nails, and the looming ban triggered a frenzied rush to stockpile. While I was doing time, the Federal Bureau of Prisons changed their smoking policy and the prison where I was locked up banned cigarettes.
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