Still Standing. Anaité Alvarado

both attorneys, they were allowed to visit me outside of regular visiting hours, while Ed posed as their assistant. They were all carrying supplies: a pillow, two blankets, pants, T-shirts, sweatshirts, Crocs, bathroom items, a towel, toilet paper, money, bread, and some extra goodies. I also received two boxes of cereal courtesy of another dear friend, and six new undies courtesy of an angel I had never met from Vania’s office. Once Emilio finished with his client, he joined us, and we took advantage of his expertise as a former Vice Minister of the Interior, a position that put him in charge of prisons, to make a list of other things I might need. Their visit and the plentiful supplies were all a godsend on such a bleak day.

      When I finally returned to my cellblock, I found that Mimi had assigned me new living quarters. I was to move into a bunk bed area (also referred to as plancha, the same word inmates use for punishments) with Clara, Mimi’s maid and assistant. Mimi considered it a safe place for me, but there were already three women sleeping there: fifty-three-year-old Clara had the top bed; twenty-seven-year-old Verónica had the lower bed; and thirty-seven-year-old Mariana, a foreigner who had arrived a couple of days earlier than me, slept on the floor. Since the weather had recently turned cold, Mariana had begun sleeping with Verónica on her bed. However, with my addition to the group, it was decided that I was to sleep with Verónica, and Mariana would return to the floor. I felt bad for Mariana, but maybe having the floor to oneself was better than a small cement bunk bed for two. So far, they all seemed like nice women, each going through tough times and experiencing indescribable pain. As my first day in prison came to a close, I realized that some of these women, whom we may normally fear in the outside world due to their crimes, had been nothing but helpful and supportive to me so far.

      At 5 p.m., right after we were required to return to our cellblocks for lockdown, I climbed onto Clara’s upper bunk hoping to read for a while. It was Día de los Reyes (Three Kings’ Day) and a celebration was underway, but all I wanted to do was dive into a fictional world and disappear. As I opened my book, I was suddenly overcome by sadness and tears started rolling down my cheeks. I thought I would cry for a while, let it all out, and then try to read again, but the tears didn’t quit. It was all too much. This new reality, the thought of Nina and Fabián without a father and now missing their mother, how I was aching to kiss and hug them, not knowing how long this nightmare would last . . . it devastated me. While the party, loud music, games, and jokes grew louder, I felt worse and worse, incessant tears turning into a full-fledged anxiety attack. So, I climbed down from the bed, headed toward the cellblock entrance gates, and sat down, concentrating on regulating my breath. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by several women who came over, sat next to me, and coached me through deep breaths to calm me down, while inside I just wanted to die . . . anything to get out of that place.

      I finally managed to calm down and swiftly became aware of the chill in the air coming in through the entrance’s open bars. As I stood up and walked to my room, the music was at full blast, burning incense filled the cellblock, and baby Jesus was brought in by “The Three Wise Men.” I climbed into my part of the lower bunk bed and, exhausted, at long last fell asleep. It was 7:30 p.m. The party lasted until midnight and I slept right through it. I think I asked God to let me sleep forever that night.

      —

      As the days of my first week in prison proceeded, I slowly fell into the prison routine. Four a.m. head count, sleep a few more hours, get up, wait in line for a freezing shower, add my name to the phone call list, and busy myself as best I could to endure another day without freedom. On weekdays, Mimi let us watch local television channels from 3 p.m. to 10 p.m., the general preference being the news and soap operas. Our cellblock’s go-to series on one of the TVs was El Señor de los Cielos, a Mexican series about an infamous drug trafficker that had many on the edge of their seats. Later, from 10 p.m. to midnight, a nightly religious vigil was held inside the cellblock near the main entrance. The women would pray and sing, filling the night’s silence with a bit of joy. It was quite beautiful.

      On my second morning, I was called to the warden’s office, where I was officially registered as a prisoner. From now on, if anyone inquired about my criminal record, it would show that I was an inmate in Santa Teresa. With wet hair, no makeup, and enlarged eyes from crying the night before, I was fingerprinted and then told to stand against a height chart with my inmate number in hand while my picture was taken. I was now an official inmate.

      My new roommate Mariana was also being registered that morning. As we got to talking, I learned that she had come here like the rest of us, with nothing but the clothes on her back, while her fifteen-year-old son had also been taken into custody. Mariana was a foreigner, had no family in Guatemala, no money, and no way to contact her child. She told me she had been living in Guatemala with her partner and her fifteen-year-old son from another marriage. She claimed that her partner had gone out to buy sodas on December 31, and had never returned; his burned body turned up on the property where they lived on January 1. The next day, the police came to take her and her son away, charging them with the man’s murder, based on a neighbor’s statement claiming that the couple fought a lot. After having experienced firsthand how the Attorney General’s Office had come after me, I was now readily inclined to believe an inmate rather than our own attorney general. Little did I know how many more similar heart-wrenching stories I would hear during my stay in prison. It changed my life forever.

      Later that day, as I roamed around the prison compound, I bumped into a young, tall American woman whom I had noticed the day before. “Are you Anaité?” she asked, and I nodded. “I have a message from a fellow Rotary member who asked me to find you and let you know that everyone is in disbelief and outraged by what they are doing to you!” She introduced herself as Ashley Williams and even though she was not an inmate in Santa Teresa, she spent most of her time here because she ran a screen-printing company (Serigrafía) inside the prison. Ashley didn’t remember the person’s name, but her message brought me joy. I spent the rest of the afternoon at Serigrafía chatting away with Ashley, who told me I was welcome there anytime I wanted to sit down, read, write, or relax.

      Serigrafía is located in the same section of the prison that houses Social Services, encamamiento, the infirmary, and the inmate maternity ward. The general prison population, which includes me, does not have access to that area, but I had received authorization from Lili from encamamiento and now Ashley from Serigrafía, so I was the exception to the rule.