From following strict dress codes to being frisked, visiting a loved one at New Jersey State Prison has always been a headache. But lingering COVID-19 restrictions have created a whole new set of issues.
Before the pandemic, people on our approved lists could simply show up at the prison during visiting hours for a “window visit” through plexiglass. Weekend “contact visits” in the North Compound hall were granted on a first come, first served basis. If my brother, his wife and their two young children made it to check-in by 8:45 a.m., getting in wasn’t a problem.
Nowadays, visitors have to call the prison and book a slot 48 hours in advance. But this only works if someone answers the phone. Staff are supposed to pick up Mondays through Thursdays, between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m., but my brother says he’s had to call for hours — or even days — to reach a human being.
At times, staff members have answered the phone, told him “the system is down,” and abruptly hung up. On two occasions, he booked a visit and drove the two hours from Long Island, New York, but was turned away at the door because the appointment wasn’t actually logged. With my brother’s word against that of phantom employees who didn’t identify themselves, we were out of luck. (Recently, after my repeated calls and letters to the corrections department and the recommendation of our tier representatives, the prison has been giving visitors registration numbers that they can use as confirmation.)
Another time, my brother and his family were unceremoniously turned away for a novel reason: They hadn’t brought their 6- and 9-year-old children’s birth certificates to the prison. In my 19 years of incarceration, I’d never heard of such a requirement. I later learned that this was a longtime policy to prevent people from bringing in kids who weren’t directly related to prisoners. But I don’t understand how a pictureless birth certificate helps authorities confirm the identities of young children.
On top of the scheduling and ID woes, seating in the visit hall has been reconfigured. Before COVID, my mother could hold my hand during the entirety of our 90-minute visits, and I could sit next to my nephew and niece while they drew pictures with crayons. Now, even though the pandemic is no longer acute, we must be 2 or 3 feet apart from our loved ones. That means my octogenarian parents — who can barely hear me over the visiting room chatter — have to lean forward the whole time. The kids are also restless, especially since the prison took away the toys and mats they once provided.
When we prisoners complain about what seems to be a concerted effort to make our visits less frequent and more uncomfortable, we’re told that we can choose to go without.
Given all of the hoops we have to jump through, contact visiting days are always full of anxiety. I put on a good face to avoid traumatizing my loved ones any further. One Saturday in February, shortly before my brother and his family were set to be out of the country for a while, I gave an Oscar-winning performance.
Although I was off from my job in the chapel, I rose in time for 7 a.m. breakfast. I took a shower and put on my khakis, which were starch-pressed thanks to the boys in the prison laundry who help us look presentable for our families and friends.
Around 8:30, a prisoner who had been talking to the unit C.O. through the window slot in the officers’ bubble called out, “Tariq, you got a contact visit!” That’s how I found out that my family hadn’t yet been turned away for some bullcrap reason.
As my cell door slowly slid open, I rose from my makeshift seat — an empty W.B. Mason copy paper box that I had filled with legal documents from my useless appeals. To create a cushion, I covered the box with two blankets. (I had to get creative; my cell only has a metal stool, and it hurts if I sit on it for a prolonged period of time.)
Before I exited my cell, I checked my pockets to make sure I had my ID card. I took a final look at my beard, which I had shaped up with clippers, using my 6-inch acrylic mirror. “Looking good bro!” one of my friends called out as I walked by.
During my 3-minute walk from South Compound unit 1-EE to the holding area in the West Compound, I once again prayed that my family would make it through. After all, my brother and his wife had to get the kids up, dressed and fed by 6 a.m. to hit the road on time.
A little after 10, I was among a group of men summoned to the North Compound visit hall. To get inside, we walked through multiple metal detectors and a gauntlet of officers who patted us down, one by one. We were all so close to seeing our loved ones when one man learned that his visit with his 85-year-old mother had been canceled. Apparently, officers had deemed the burgundy of her shirt a gang color. “Go write that shit up!” a young officer shouted as the man walked away muttering.
Just as my anxiety spiked, the supervisor called out my name. I sighed in relief and entered the spacious, rectangular room where some of the walls are covered in nature scenes and Looney Tunes figures.
Those murals — which prisoners had painted to bring some semblance of happiness to this hopeless place — couldn’t make up for the empty vending machines that once held water, chips, cookies and soda. And those colorful walls certainly couldn’t make the Oscar-worthy smile I’d put on my face any more real.
And yet, visits remain a crucial lifeline. Behind these walls, my humanity is reduced to cell and inmate numbers. Holding my loved ones’ hands or feeling their warm embrace reminds me that my life is still worth something. For those fleeting moments, I get to feel like I really exist.
Tariq MaQbool is a correspondent at the Prison Journalism Project. He is a recipient of the Stillwater Award for excellence in prison journalism, and he maintains Captive Voices, a website for his poetry and essays and the writings of other incarcerated people. As a tutor certified by Learning Volunteers of America, he has worked with students who have learning disabilities or are learning English. MaQbool was convicted of double homicide in 2005 and is serving 150 years at the New Jersey State Prison. He maintains his innocence.
A spokesperson from the New Jersey Department of Corrections stated that phone system outages at New Jersey State Prison have been resolved. He said the department has no record of the two incidents in which MaQbool’s brother and his family were refused visits because their appointment wasn’t logged. He also said the department had no record of a man’s 85-year-old mother being turned away due to the color of her shirt.
The spokesperson did not directly address the removal of toys and mats or the required distance between prisoners and visitors. He noted that contact was “limited to one embrace at the beginning and one at the end of the visit” even before the pandemic.
