By now, most of you know that I’ve been living behind the walls of FCI Fairton for a month, thirty long days out of the nearly unbelievable 87-month sentence handed down to me by a federal judge in the Eastern District of New York.
Let me tell you something: I thought I’d seen government dysfunction before, but never at this level.
What I’ve witnessed here is not just inefficiency, it’s outright chaos, sometimes bordering on what I can only describe as criminal negligence. Now, this is not some cash-strapped government agency struggling to keep the lights on.
No, this is the Bureau of Prisons, one of the most well-funded agencies in our federal government. And how do I know that? Simple. I worked on their budget back when I served in Congress.
I peeled back the layers, studied the appropriations, and saw firsthand the resources Congress pours into this agency. With all that money at their disposal, there is absolutely no excuse for what I see every day here at Fairton. Picture this: black mold creeping across the ceiling, a commercial kitchen in visible decay, food well past its expiration date being served to inmates.
And when I say expired, I’m talking about items so far gone they should have been tossed out YEARS ago. I make it a personal mission to throw out anything I see before it reaches the food line and someone’s plate. That’s how absurd the situation is here at Fairton. This isn’t an “oversight,” it’s a culture of neglect.
And it leaves me asking: what in the world is going on? This place is the living, breathing embodiment of the phrase “government dysfunction.” Nothing runs as it should. Systems break down daily. Logic doesn’t apply.
You’re left scratching your head, wondering who, if anyone, is steering the ship.
Now, to be fair, there are people here who try. If it weren’t for the rank-and-file correctional officers, the COs, this place would collapse. Most of them are decent, hardworking men and women doing their best with the limited resources extended to them by the Fairton administration. Sure, you’ve got a few bad apples, but the vast majority do their jobs with exceptionalism and professionalism.
And for that, I am genuinely grateful. But the Administration? That’s another story altogether. Frankly, I wouldn’t trust the administrators here to run a fast-food restaurant, let alone a federal prison.
They don’t seem to understand management, compliance, or even the bare minimum of human rights standards. And let me be crystal clear: prison is not supposed to be fun. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. It’s punishment.
It’s meant to be difficult. But there’s a line, a moral line between punishment and outright neglect of human dignity. When you house 48 men in a dorm with poor air quality due to a broken AC system and black mold on the ceiling… when the bathroom is unsanitary and falling apart… when you serve food that is clearly past its “good through” date, you’re not enforcing justice, you’re stripping people of their basic rights. What’s worse, when I’ve pressed administrators for answers, I’ve been met with excuses so flimsy they’d be laughable if they weren’t so insulting to my intelligence.
I’ve heard everything from “budget cuts” to, yes, believe it or not, “Trump” being blamed for the conditions here. That’s when I push back.
Because I know the numbers. I know the budgets. And their excuses simply don’t hold water. But amid all this dysfunction, there are moments of unexpected light. And strangely enough, they come not from the people, but from the creatures that share this place with us.
Fairton is surrounded by a wooded, almost pastoral-like area, and it’s home to a few permanent residents of the furry and scaly variety. We’ve got four cats roaming the grounds, one of whom just had a litter of five kittens. As an animal lover, I can’t help myself. I’ve spent plenty of my commissary money on tuna to feed them.
And I’m not alone. Many inmates pitch in. Now, whether it’s technically “allowed” or not, I don’t know, and I haven’t been told otherwise. So until then, I’ll keep doing it.
Those cats bring us a sense of normalcy, a moment of tenderness in an otherwise harsh environment. They’re a blessing, a morale boost, and a reminder that life, in all its forms, finds a way even here.
This week alone I had two unusual encounters with some of our other “neighbors.” One was a small frog that nearly got crushed underfoot. Without hesitation, I scooped it up and released it safely beyond the fence line of the prison.
Then, just a few days later, a garden snake slithered its way toward the dormitory door.
Chaos ensued grown men jumping out of the way, yelling in fear. Meanwhile, I calmly picked up the two-foot-long garden snake with my hands and relocated her to safety. Call it boredom. Call it me going a little stir crazy. But I’ll say this: these small interactions with the animals around the Fairton grounds have become highlights of my days.
They shift my mindset, break the monotony, and remind me that even in confinement, the world outside is still turning. So yes, this is prison. Yes, it is tough. But it’s also America, and in America, even behind fences, we are supposed to hold ourselves to high standards. We must never forget that prisoners are human beings. And we must demand accountability from the agencies that operate in our name and with our tax dollars.
Until next week, when I’ll continue to practice my favorite Amendment!