This is the latest installment in the Chronicles from Parchman series, a monthly column by writer L. Patri, who has been fighting his wrongful conviction on Parchman’s death row for over thirty years. Listen to the voiceover if you want to hear Mr. Patri read this essay.

About time, if you want to know my opinion. For three months, starting on November 1, 2023, I had been living in solitary confinement on Mississippi’s death row for an RVR (Rule Violation Report) about having a contraband cell phone. For the past two weeks, the prison administration had been stalling and b**********g me about moving me out of solitary. Meanwhile, they had moved other men who had been in solitary for a much shorter time than I had. Finally, I requested to talk to the Watch Commander supervising Unit 29. He left (taking his sweet time) and later ordered that 29J Building oversee my moving out of confinement. As I said, it was about time.

So. The past two days, I’d been carrying out the moving day routine that I’ve done for over two and a half decades now. If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve done this over 50 times, starting at Unit 32C, then in 32B, and now in 29J.

Let me take you back in time and rewind some of the b******t I’ve had to endure that caused this routine to come into existence. Listen. In the summer of 1997—but don’t quote me exactly, as my memory is shitty these days—about four state prisoners escaped from Unit 32C; supposedly, two death row guys were involved. That escape happened on a Friday but it wasn’t until Sunday or Monday when the administration realized these men were gone. Finally, a guard noticed that some windows had been cut out and two guys under state custody were missing. All hell broke loose. They began shaking down every cell in earnest to check every window. That is when they found out that a death row guy was also involved because when they banged on his window with that rubber mallet, the whole damn thing fell out.

The Mississippi Department of Corrections (MDOC) administration responded with what they must have thought was a good plan. Every three to four days, they would move every guy on death row to a new cell in an ordered fashion like this: I was in cell #94 at this time of the escape, so my first move was into cell #95, while the guy in #95 moved to #96, and so forth. With each move, the guards would shake us down, bang on the windows and bars with rubber mallets, and move us one cell over. I travel as light as possible because years ago, we battled MDOC over the issue of having too much paperwork or personal belongings. To keep down b******t between myself and staff, I only possess the necessary things. One, maybe two items each of personal hygiene and stationery items (except pens—I collect colorful pens like candy) and my legal work. I only possess the legal work that I am filing at the present. I can fit all my personal things in two laundry bags or one legal box. Yeah, a hope chest type thing.

Now. The problem with this moving procedure is that I could fall in behind some really nasty, filthy man—and believe me when I tell you, back then there were some unreal men who would leave semen on the walls and floor, spend their days digging in their noses and leaving funky boogers everywhere, and leave behind piss spots and rotten food. Then there were men who thought that because we were being forced to move every three to four days, that it was not on them to clean up their cells, so they began leaving filth behind. I guess guys got confused about the “good for the goose, good for the gander” mentality. Because this isn’t good for goose, gander, or gerrymander; it’s just wrong all the way around.

MDOC moved us this way for almost a year until some of us got fed up and began resisting. When they told us to pack up, we told them to pack it up. When they told us to get handcuffs to move, they had to call in more manpower to force us to move because they could only move us one at a time, as back then we couldn’t be out together. It would take them ten to twelve hours rather than four to five hours, and then we refused to go until they cleaned, or should I say half-ass cleaned, the cell before we moved into it.

Now, I’m thinking most of y’all are saying, ”That ain’t resisting, fool,” and quite possibly you are right. However, Parchman’s death row is run a little differently than the prison you’re probably imagining, as our guards barely do any work at all. But it didn’t used to be that way. Until recently, we were shackled and waist-chained down in irons, and the guards had to haul every item, each time we moved. That’s fifty-plus men and so many countless boxes of legal papers and books and s**t. These days, when we pack up and move ourselves with them just standing around watching, it is way easier than it is for MDOC to send twenty or more guards to move us as they tote around every guy’s possessions. I guess you can say that “resistance” means that if I have no choice and I have to move, then I am going to be moved.

Eventually they ended that nonsense of moving us every few days. But during this time period, I had developed a cleaning system that I continue to this day that puts me at ease no matter which man lives in the cell before me and no matter how many poisonous insects think they will keep living there after I move in.

It goes like this. Before washing and scrubbing and cleaning, I take the bottle of hand sanitizer I use for germs, and I use the spray bottle to squirt liquid into every nook, cranny, crease, crack, and crevice in the cell. Then I take my lighter and set it ablaze so that fire runs throughout, like wildfire or lightning. One strike and it turns straight through and burns for five or six minutes, hopefully clearing the cracks out of every pest and insect. I do this because at one point in these three decades that I’ve been in this hellhole, I used to sleep on the floor, laying down only a sheet or a blanket. I still never sleep on the mattress here, and I don’t want anyone crawling in my bed unwanted as I sleep. So far, I believe this has worked, as I’ve never been bit by a spider or any other insect, unless you count these blood-sucking Mississippi mosquitoes every year. I still haven’t found a solution to those except knocking their ass out of the air with flip-flops. The problem with that is that when I pop these little suckers, blood sprays all over the walls, so then I have to sanitize and clean that up, too. Ugh! Serenity now.

I spray and set fire to the whole room for at least five rounds. When I feel comfortable in my mind that I have it all cleared out, I set about sweeping up, washing down every inch of the walls, floor, ceiling, bed, window, door, and bars, you feel me. I use my water hose, which is made from the tubing casing on coaxial cables that I fit into the sink spout and push an ink pen tip on into the other end, which causes the water to shoot out sharply. This really digs up grime and dirt and is able to fully clear the window’s screen on the outside as well as the inside. Once I’ve cleaned and mopped up the water, I need rest because this is hard work. I am not using a broom or mop but am literally on my hands and knees with a floor rag.

You’re hearing this and you’re thinking that’s one really clean guy, right? Wrong. I’m just trying not to have disease carriers and poisonous things crawling into my bed. I prefer to sleep alone if I can’t sleep with who I want, and trust me when I tell you that there isn’t anything inside these cold walls and steel that I want sleeping in my bed.

Now that I’ve said this, maybe you’re noticing the same thing that just flashed across my mind: this state isn’t satisfied trying to put a needle in my arm to poison and kill me; they have literally placed me in a death trap where poisonous insects can kill me in case they don’t. Damn. This is really ruthless. Listen, though. This next man who moves into the cells that I vacate—lucky joker! He has a cleaning service, pest control, and all. He can just move in and plop or flop down and fall asleep. I should be charging for my services.

L. Patri is of Black and Natchez Indian descent, and he is the father of one daughter and a grandfather of five grandchildren. He was born on the river in Natchez, Mississippi, and for the past three decades, he has been challenging his wrongful conviction of capital murder. He writes in multiple and hybrid genres, including thought pieces, journalism, short fiction, letters, and memoir.

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