Piper Kerman: Wall of Sound

Summary

The Moth Podcast: Piper Kerman – "Wall of Sound"

Release Date: June 24, 2013

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Introduction

In the episode titled "Wall of Sound," Piper Kerman shares her harrowing yet transformative experience during her year in a women's federal prison in Danbury, Connecticut. Known for her bestselling memoir Orange is the New Black, Kerman delivers a poignant narrative that delves deep into the challenges of prison life, the significance of human connection, and the yearning for normalcy amidst confinement.

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Journey to Incarceration

Piper Kerman opens her story by recounting the circumstances that led to her imprisonment. In 2004, she found herself behind bars due to a drug-related offense committed in 1993. Fresh out of Smith College, Kerman had fallen into a relationship with an older woman involved in narcotics trafficking. Tasked with transporting a substantial amount of money from Chicago to Brussels, Kerman's actions, though unintentional in their gravity, resulted in over a decade of incarceration.

“I was transformed, head spinningly, quickly, into prisoner number 111-877-4424.” [05:15]

This transformation marked the beginning of her arduous journey, stripping her of individuality and reducing her to a mere number within the vast system.

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Life Inside the Walls

Upon her arrival at the federal correctional institution, Kerman describes the stark and intimidating environment. The facility, surrounded by razor wire and guarded by stern personnel, was a physical manifestation of the isolation and control exerted over inmates.

“That place and the people who ran it never let you forget that to them, you were nothing but that number.” [06:40]

Kerman details the initial dehumanization process, involving invasive strip searches and the relentless assignment of numbers, which serve to erase personal identities and enforce a sense of anonymity among the prisoners.

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The Commissary: A Glimmer of Humanity

Central to Kerman's narrative is the role of the commissary—a prison store where inmates can purchase various items to make their confined lives more bearable. From essential toiletries to rare luxuries like a radio, the commissary becomes a symbol of autonomy and a connection to the outside world.

“If you have money in your commissary account, you can get a banana, some ibuprofen even some eyeshadow in hummingbird colors.” [09:20]

For Kerman, the commissary was not just a place to buy necessities but a means to retain a semblance of normalcy and control over her environment. Her ability to receive funds from the outside allowed her access to items that provided comfort and a touch of humanity amidst the bleakness of prison life.

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The Elusive Radio: A Desire for Connection

Among the items offered in the commissary, the radio stood out as Kerman's most coveted possession. Priced exorbitantly at $42.90—a stark contrast to its $6 street price—the radio represented a vital connection to the outside world. It was her key to movie nights, music, and the news, serving as an escape from the overwhelming noise and loneliness of prison.

“I wanted to hear music. I wanted to hear the news. I wanted to hear voices that had nothing to do with that awful place.” [11:45]

Despite her financial stability through external support, Kerman's repeated attempts to acquire a radio were thwarted by stock shortages orchestrated by a particular prison guard.

“No radios Kerman. No radios Kerman. They were out of stock.” [13:10]

This persistent denial deepened her sense of isolation and frustration, highlighting the limited avenues for personal fulfillment within the prison system.

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Breaking Barriers: The Quest for a Radio

Determined to obtain the radio, Kerman took initiative by actively engaging with fellow inmates. As an electrician confined to hanging hooks within the dorms, she leveraged her position to build relationships and gain trust.

“No one is looking out for us in this shithole. We have to look out for each other.” [15:30]

Her efforts led her to Lionel, a high-ranking inmate responsible for the warehouse and commissary inventory. Despite the inherent risks of breaching prison protocols, Kerman approached Lionel with her request, navigating the delicate balance between seeking assistance and adhering to institutional rules.

“Lionel, I am really sorry to bother you, but I've got a question.” [16:00]

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Triumph and Reflection

Kerman's persistence culminated in the acquisition of the much-desired radio. The moment she received it was not just about possessing a physical item but about the recognition and regard from Lionel—a gesture that transcended the impersonal nature of prison life.

“I knew in that moment that I had her regard. She saw me for who I was and not just the number that we were supposed to be in that place. And that made my heart sing.” [16:50]

This achievement symbolized a significant personal victory, illustrating the profound impact of human connection and mutual support even within the confines of incarceration.

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Conclusion

Piper Kerman's "Wall of Sound" is a compelling testament to resilience, the importance of community, and the pursuit of dignity in the face of systemic adversity. Her narrative not only sheds light on the intricacies of prison life but also underscores the universal human need for connection, recognition, and the small comforts that sustain us during our most challenging times.

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Notable Quotes

• “I was transformed, head spinningly, quickly, into prisoner number 111-877-4424.” [05:15]
• “That place and the people who ran it never let you forget that to them, you were nothing but that number.” [06:40]
• “If you have money in your commissary account, you can get a banana, some ibuprofen even some eyeshadow in hummingbird colors.” [09:20]
• “I wanted to hear music. I wanted to hear the news. I wanted to hear voices that had nothing to do with that awful place.” [11:45]
• “No radios Kerman. No radios Kerman. They were out of stock.” [13:10]
• “No one is looking out for us in this shithole. We have to look out for each other.” [15:30]
• “Lionel, I am really sorry to bother you, but I've got a question.” [16:00]
• “I knew in that moment that I had her regard. She saw me for who I was and not just the number that we were supposed to be in that place. And that made my heart sing.” [16:50]

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About the Host

Dan Kennedy, the host of this episode, is a writer and performer based in New York. He authored the novel American Spirit and continues to engage audiences with compelling storytelling on The Moth podcast.

Podcast Sponsorship

This episode of The Moth Podcast was sponsored by LegalZoom, offering listeners special discounts on legal services at legalzoom.com.

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For more stories and live events, visit themoth.org.

Transcript

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[Dan Kennedy]

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[Piper Kerman]

For sale at the Commissary at the federal correctional Institution for women in Danbury, Connecticut. You can get shampoo, deodorant, soap, toothpaste. You can get pens and paper envelopes and stamps, your lifeline to the outside world. You can get packets of tuna and hot sauce and candy and razors. And if you're lucky, if you got it like that, you can get sneakers, vitamins, luxuries. The most coveted item of all, a radio. I went to prison in 2004. I went behind a drug offense from 1993 when I was fresh out of Smith College. I fell into a relationship with a mysterious older woman, and she was a narcotics trafficker. And she asked me to carry a bag stuffed with money from Chicago to Brussels. And I did. The things that we do, the consequences of the things we do, they come back to us in one way or another. And for me, more than a decade later, I found myself walking through prison gates in the biggest, most vicious looking razor wire fence I'd ever seen in my life. And on that day, when I surrendered at that prison, I found myself stripped naked in a cold tile room, commanded to squat and cough for the first of what would be hundreds and hundreds of strip searches. And I was transformed, head spinningly, quickly, into prisoner number 111-877-4424. That place and the people who ran it never let you forget that to them, you were nothing but that number. So I was put in the unit where I would live for the next year. And I immediately saw that I was one of hundreds and hundreds of prisoners. I was surrounded by women of every size, shape, color, accent, and I knew none of them. I was desperately trying to avoid eye contact with anyone, and women began to approach me. And I was scared. And they said things to me. They came at me and they said things like, do you need a toothbrush, some shower shoes, some instant coffee? This was the phenomenon known as the welcome wagon. And you need to get everything that you need for from the welcome wagon, because you're not going to get it from the prison. The only things that the prison gives you during your stay are toilet paper, tampons, and once a month, a small ration of laundry powder. So everything you need comes from the commissary. Even the things on offer from the institution, like green meat and government cheese and moldy pudding, are ironically in short supply. You know, the food is lousy and the portions are too small. And so that commissary is very important. If you have money in your commissary account, you can get a banana, some ibuprofen even some eyeshadow in hummingbird colors. And these tiny comforts, they make you feel human there, and they also make you feel just a little bit more in control of your prison life, which is why commissary is one of the first privileges you might lose if you're punished there. So I was very fortunate. Unlike most of the women that I was doing time with, I could count on folks from the outside world to put money into my commissary account. So in theory, I would want for nothing. But there was one thing that I wanted from that commissary very, very badly, and I couldn't get it. And that was a radio. Just a cheap little transistor radio about the size of a deck of cards with a headset, and would have cost about $6 out here on the street. And in prison, it costs $42.90. And at 14 cents an hour, that represents about 300 hours of prison labor. So those radios are very, very dear. And despite that, once a woman has her basics taken care of, her hygiene, her stamps, that radio is going to be one of the first things that she gets if she can scrape together the racehorses. And here's why. Prison, especially in this country, is crowded. And because of that, it's noisy. Imagine the sound of hundreds and hundreds of people bouncing off of cinderblock walls and metal all day, every day. And prison is lonely. The last thing my lawyer said to me before I was about to go in was, piper, don't make any friends. And something you hear again and again when you're locked up is you walk in here alone and you walk out alone, and prison is stultifyingly intimate, meaning that all of your moments of every day, your most private moments, are lived stacked on top of one another in a place where no one wants to be. This is not the kind of intimacy that one craves. So that radio was like the silver bullet that could at least alleviate those conditions a little bit. Just a little bit. But I couldn't get one. And that's because every week when I went to the commissary on Tuesdays, the prison guard who ran the place, he was the one who would throw every grocery item at you after he scanned it, would say, no radios Kerman. No radios Kerman. They were out of stock. Out of stock of the radios. Now, folks wanted those radios for practical reasons. You had to have the radio in order to watch television. So if you'd gone into any of the many, many TV rooms in the prison, you would have been surprised by the silence and what you would have seen was dozens of women sitting there, headphones on, turned to the same frequency so they could hear the program. But I didn't want the radio to watch the Today show or Fear Factor. I wanted it so that I could go to the movies on Saturday night. In the federal prison system, every weekend, they screen a movie, and the movies reliably fall into three categories. You've got low comedy, high melodrama, and anything with an animal protagonist. When they screened Hidalgo, the horse dies at the end, and I found myself surrounded by sobbing convicts. Movie night was the collective social event. Everybody went. Everybody, you know, folks would go to the same screenings and sit in the same seats with their friends. And even the biggest loner in the prison would make the scene. And after weeks and then months of trying to follow my lawyer's advice and keeping to myself all meek and mild, I wanted to make the scene, too. I wanted in on the action. And that radio was the golden ticket to movie night, because otherwise you were just reading lips. But every week, no radios. Kerman. I wanted that radio for another reason, too. I needed it to escape. Since I had arrived in February, I had been fleeing out of the unit building where I lived, down to a little gravel track that we were allowed to use. I would go out there in the freezing cold and crunch around in that ice and snow to get away from that noise, to get away from the gossip and the fights and the human stew that I was a part of in that prison. And I wanted that radio to get even further away. I wanted to hear music. I wanted to hear the news. I wanted to hear voices that had nothing to do with that awful place. I wanted to remember that the outside world existed. And still, every week, no radios. Kerman. The ice and snow down on that track turned into mud and then dried up in the spring sunshine. And still, week after week, they were out of radios. I was getting desperate. So one day, I was down in the dorms doing work as an electrician. That was my job. Well, actually, I was hanging up illegal hooks. One of the rules of the prison is that you can have no personal items anywhere in your living quarters except in your locker or hung up. And those hooks were in very, very short supply. But as an electrician, I had access to tools, and I could fashion a makeshift hook that I could install in someone's area. And the word spread like wildfire that upon request, I would do just that, hang up those hooks. And all of a sudden, women I didn't know, some women I didn't like, were Coming to me and asking me to hook them up. And I never said no. I always did it. And one of my co workers in the electric shop got frustrated with me one day. She said, piper, you don't have to do this. Why do you bother? And I said, no one is looking out for us in this shithole. We have to look out for each other. So on this particular day, I was in B dorm, my own dorm, hanging up hooks, screwing them into the wall. And I spotted Lionel. Now, Lionel, unlike me, was doing serious time, a long sentence. And she was the acknowledged consigliere of the warehouse and the commissary, which was a plum prison job. She was a formidable figure, but she was my neighbor. She was not my friend. But she lived about three feet away from me. And she would say good morning to me, and, you know, we found ourselves brushing our teeth side by side before lights out. She'd give me a smile every now and then. So I got up my courage and I approached her and I said, lionel, I'm really sorry to bother you, but I've got a question. And I explained my radio problem. And Lionel just looked at me. I said, lionel, I am going crazy without music. The CEO won't tell me when that shipment is coming in. Do you know? She just stared at me, not smiling. She said, kerman, you know you're not supposed to ask warehouse folks about the inventory. It's against the rules. I said, no, Lionel, I didn't know that. I didn't mean to put you on the spot. I'm sorry. I could have kicked myself. I felt like a jackass. So I had broken a cardinal rule. Another thing you hear again and again when you're locked up is don't ask questions in prison. This in response to essentially any question. So now, not only did I not have a radio, I had committed a huge prison faux pas. So I was dejected, to say the least. And the next week, I almost didn't even put the radio on my commissary list. Why bother? You know, some women who had shopped before me were complaining they were still out. And I just dragged my tail into that commissary building. And so when a shiny, bright new radio came hurtling into my grocery pile, I just stared at it until the CO began to scream. What's wrong with you, Kerman? I guess it's true what they say about blondes, huh? Keep moving, Kerman. Move, move, move. I began to shove my purchases, including that precious radio, into my laundry bag as quickly as I could. And as I did that I looked past the co back into the commissary and I could see Lionel back there working and she would not meet my eye. I turned around and I walked out of that commissary and I was elated, and not because of what I had in that bag. The idea that Lionel, a prisoner, one of us, could make something happen just like that was thrilling to me. The fact that she had the power to get that radio was stunning to me, and the fact that she had chosen to give it to me was absolutely astounding. I knew in that moment that I had her regard. She saw me for who I was and not just the number that we were supposed to be in that place. And that made my heart sing.

[Dan Kennedy]

Piper Kerman is the author of the memoir Orange is the New My year in a women's prison. The book has been adapted as an original TV series, coming to Netflix in 2013. Piper works as a communications consultant with nonprofit and philanthropic organizations and she lives in New York with her family. The Moth Podcast is sponsored by Legal Zoom it's time to create your own story when you start that business you've been dreaming about. LegalZoom can help you ensure your assets are legally protected with LLCs, incorporation and other business filings. They can also help you legally protect your family. LegalZoom has been helping Americans get personalized wills, powers of attorney and living Trusts for over 12 years. Their service was developed by a team of experienced attorneys and LegalZoom takes care of you from start to finish as an introduction to Moth listeners. Now you can get a special discount to thank you for listening to our podcast. If you're a parent or entrepreneur, call or visit legalzoom.com today and see how easy it is to protect your family or launch your business dream. LegalZoom can provide self help services at your specific direction or connect you with an attorney, but they're not a law firm. Go to legalzoom.com for wills starting at $69 or in corporations and LLCs for only $99 and get your special discount by entering Moth in the referral box at checkout. Also, here's something you want to put on the calendar for August. The Moth main stage is returning to Martha's vineyard on Saturday, August 3rd. That'll be at the Tabernacle. For information on tickets and for all of our upcoming tour stops, visit themoth.org.

[Piper Kerman]

Our podcast host, Dan Kennedy is a writer and performer living in New York and author of the new novel American Spirit, available now.

[Dan Kennedy]

Thanks to all of you for listening and we hope you have a story worthy week. Podcast audio production by Paul Ruest at the Argo Studios in New York. The Moth Podcast and the Radio Hour are presented by prx, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more [e-mail].