"One of the most stressful things in a prisoner's life is a shakedown.

By policy, we have them every quarter, but anyone is subject to a search (and seizure) at anytime. Every shakedown is different and we never know quite what to expect, so it strikes like judgment day. Some last for days while the officers carefully root through every single thing we own. Some last but an hour. Very often, but not always, they will tell us that we are going on lockdown and to throw away all our contraband. All of us know exactly what we can have in our possession and what the prison does not allow.

This self-weeding method is popular with both inmates and officers. With inmates, because we can judge for ourselves rather than have someone else dig through our precious things; and with officers because paranoid inmates like me ruthlessly purge our belongings more effectively than bored and exhausted officers. Of course, there are always the elements who loudly claim that 'they're not gonna throw nuttin' away--let the po-leece do their job.' They apparently enjoy officers trashing their cells and are the ones who also boast on the debates they have won arguing over a cardboard trashcan.

Since, however, I like to boast about how I live 'transparently,' shakedown time is a quarterly personal shakeup. Because unless one is a vegetable, it is impossible to live for any length of time exactly according to DOC policy. Even if it is an extra spoon or too many pencils, seemingly innocent and unimportant items, it is contraband if it contravenes the DOC personal property quotas. In other words when the officer announces a shakedown and 20 minutes to throw away all our contraband, I race to the trash with armloads of magazines, folders, puzzles I haven't yet completed, plastic ware, paperclips, cleaning rags, bars of soap, plastic containers and old mail. If nothing else I always have too much paper and too many books because in order to function properly, I must have lots of books and paper.

Every time this happens, I vow I will not allow myself to keep envelopes of saved pictures (but I need them to make my stationary), or letters from my family (but I enjoy rereading them and savoring their company) or interesting articles (but I might need that information for something). No matter how hard I try, no matter how great my intentions to kick the paper and book habit, I fail. I am, therefore, grateful for the grace period to throw away the junk in my life. If I were not under the gun, I would hem, haw and dither about trying to keep this and that. Instead, I dump vigorously.

When we come off lock, I am shaken by my perennial inability to live up to the ideal asked of me. Consequently, I feel humbler and freer. Humbler because I have had to recognize my inescapable shortcomings; freer because I have made choices. I do not feel duped for throwing away my contraband. 1 am relieved that those in charge are realistic enough to know that inevitably we will fall short and are generous-spirited enough to let us make our own choices. Besides now that I have cleaned out my box, I have room for that book order." (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, March 13, 2003).

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. She is serving a 90 year sentence as an accessory to the murder of her parents in 1985. This column is the first in a series, published under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'