*This post contains graphic descriptions of bodily functions. In casual conversation last week, I heard someone refer to a U.S. Army base grocery store as The Commissary. My brain hiccupped and for a moment, I was in a prison cell.
This happens almost every day— these prison teleportations.
I had forgotten that commissary is a term used by respectable people in honored places. That concept was buried deep within my psyche, packed away with all of the other innocent associations I once held. These days commissary is evil, albeit necessary. It is also a PITA:
Can I get some money on my account this week?
Store is due on Tuesday.
I need to get some in my next store.
There is so much to say about the realities of helping someone inside buy goods to survive that I have decided to divide this topic into two separate posts: The Necessary and The Evil.
Let’s begin with necessity.
Commissary offers one glorious moment of autonomy in an otherwise option-less prison life. It affords a modicum of comfort— if off-brand honey buns can be considered comfort. It will buy status, if one plays that way but mostly, it provides our loved ones a pinch of dignity and sanity while warding off the gnawing gremlins of hunger.
When I was working full-time, I arranged an auto-deduct from my account into his which covered basics each month. Once I got ill and stopped working, the auto-deduct stopped too. The requests are minimal now; I just need some coffee and a few toiletries.
An 8 oz. package of instant Maxwell House is $11.10, and he will go without food to get it. They do not get coffee in prison unless they buy it or barter or luck into the benevolence of a cellmate who is willing to give up a shot.
Prison’s retail market is a booming business. It is estimated that an American inmate spends about $1000 a year on canteen food, hygiene products, and clothing supplies. The Prison Policy Initiative estimates that non-incarcerated American families spend approximately $2.9 billion annually on commissary and phone calls for their loved ones.
While it is normal for those outside of this mess to point to the ‘availability’ of prison employment for income to buy their goods— some states do not pay inmates (here’s looking at you Texas, Georgia, Alabama, and Arkansas). If they are paid, the average prison wage is .10 to .86 cents per hour.1
A pack of Ramen noodles from commissary is .52 cents.
Every two weeks, The Prison Store opens up. My son has to have both the money and his completed, formal list turned in by Tuesday to procure his things— let me clarify, he will get his order 10 days later. It has taken me over two years to dial in the scheduling of this thing— Order by a certain Tuesday. Get that order 10 days later, on a Thursday. Make that food and those provisions stretch for three weeks until the next order, which was placed on the intervening Tuesday, arrives on the 3rd Thursday. Like everything in this system, it is mind-numbingly complicated and inexpedient.
My son is allowed to order up to $130 worth of goods at a time, two times a month. Until this blog started and your subscriptions filled the gap, he often only had $80-100 per month to spend. Thank you, thank you, thank you. For inquiring minds, he orders pre-packaged food items to make cook-ups2 as well as toiletries, undergarments, socks, thermals, shoes, paper, pencils, stamped envelopes, and coffee. Did I mention the coffee?
Though it’s mostly cheap crap, it is not marked at Dollar Store pricing—
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Ruffles 5.5 oz. Cheddar & Sour Cream Potato Chips $3.88
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M&M’s 5.3 oz. Plain Candy $3.96
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Generic Peanut Butter 18 oz. $4.16
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Libby’s 16 oz. Cut Green Beans (4 PK) $4.69
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Kellogg’s Club Crackers $7.26
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Toothpaste $5
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Deodorant $3.50
Yep, inflation has hit prison populations too.
There are Reddit pages, Instagram accounts, and Facebook groups dedicated to commissary food realities. It is a small relief that returning citizens can joke about their former food struggles. Some report that they still crave a few of the convict-cookups they survived on— namely, the pepperoni stuffing and infamous Ramen and Shabang chip creations.
For his birthday this year, I sent my son the only gift he is allowed: books. One was a cookbook by a fellow inmate. Anthony Duke is a Michigan prisoner doing Life Without the Possibility of Parole (LWOP) for a crime that he likely did not commit. Listen to that incredible story here.