The Value of Routines and Community in Prison
Trans and queer inmates share their experiences in finding belonging and normalcy within the bounds of a hostile prison system.
by B Speaks
In a dormitory designated for LGBTQ offenders inside a facility operated by the Georgia Department of Corrections, evenings tend to follow a predictable regiment. Televisions stay on late, people cook ramen noodles in microwaves or improvised hot pots, and small groups gather around tables to play cards, dominoes, or chess.
In one corner of the dorm, a small group of incarcerated people often sits together near the laundry carts. To most people in the dorm, it looks like any other group of inmates passing time. But the people at that table share something in common: most identify as LGBTQ, and the table has become an informal support space where they check in with one another.
There is no name written down anywhere and no formal meetings. Still, the group has developed its own routine. “It’s just where we sit most nights,” said Darius, who has been incarcerated for several years. “Nobody announces it. If somebody pulls up a chair and stays, that’s how they join.”
The group usually forms gradually after the evening count clears. Someone might bring a chessboard made from paper and tape. Someone else might bring coffee packets saved from the breakfast tray.
The conversation is mostly ordinary, sports, commissary prices, rumors about transfers, and complaints about the food. But it also includes discussions about identity and relationships that some of the participants say they are less comfortable having elsewhere in the dorm.
Terrence, another incarcerated person who often sits with the group, said he first approached the table after feeling uncomfortable in other parts of the dorm. “The first time I sat there, I didn’t really talk,” he said. “I just watched them playing chess. One of them handed me a coffee and said, ‘You good here.’ That was about it.”
Over time, he started returning most nights. “It’s just easier to sit somewhere you don’t feel like you have to explain yourself,” he said.
Daily life in prison often revolves around small routines. Many of the group’s conversations reflect that. People talk about which showers are less crowded, how to make the best “store food” combinations, or which correctional officer is likely to enforce certain rules more strictly than others. For Marisol, a transgender woman incarcerated at the facility, some of those routines require a little more planning.
“You learn when certain areas are calmer,” she said in an interview with Assigned Media. “For example, you might wait to shower when the dorm is quieter.” Those adjustments are often about avoiding attention rather than responding to direct conflict. “A lot of it is just reading the room,” she said.
Many of the details people outside prison might overlook become important parts of daily life inside. Disposable razors often dull quickly. State-issued soap can be harsh on skin. Towels and blankets tend to be thin and rough. “These blankets feel like sandpaper sometimes,” Darius said with a laugh. “Everybody folds them a couple times so it doesn’t scratch your neck.” At the same time, small items from the commissary can feel like luxuries. Hair grease, lotion, and decent razors are commonly traded items.
“Hair products are a big deal,” Marisol said. “If someone saves a little coconut oil or something from the commissary, that helps.” Maintaining personal grooming routines can be meaningful for many incarcerated people, but Marisol said it can be especially important for transgender inmates trying to maintain a sense of identity. “Something simple like taking care of your hair can make a difference in how you feel that day,” she said.
Uniforms inside Georgia prisons are standardized, typically canvas clothing and state-issued crocs. Still, inmates often find small ways to personalize their appearance. “Everybody has their little way of doing it,” Terrence said. “Maybe the way you roll your sleeves or tie something around your wrist.” Some people make bracelets from string or thread. Others adjust their clothing slightly when they are back in the dorm.
“It’s not anything big,” he said. “Just small ways to feel like yourself.” Prison dorms operate with their own informal social structure. People often sit with the same groups each night, and certain tables become associated with certain groups. The LGBTQ inmates who gather together said the arrangement helps reduce tension.
“When people know where you usually sit, it keeps things simple,” Darius said. “Everybody kind of sticks to their areas.” The table near the laundry carts offers a balance of visibility and relative quiet. “It’s not hidden,” he said. “It’s just out of the way.”
Most nights, the group’s discussions stay casual. They might argue about the best meals served in the chow hall or trade ideas for cooking commissary food. “Ramen with mayonnaise and seasoning packets, that’s a real thing,” Darius said. “You’d be surprised.” Other nights, the conversations shift toward more personal topics. People talk about relationships inside and outside prison, family members, or what life might look like after release. Sometimes those discussions include experiences related to sexuality or gender identity. “For some people, it’s the only place they talk about that stuff,” Terrence said.
Although the group is informal, members say they pay attention when someone stops showing up. “If somebody hasn’t come by in a few days, somebody will usually check on them,” Darius said. That might mean walking past their bunk to ask if everything is okay or asking around the dorm if they were moved to another unit. “It’s nothing official,” he said. “Just looking out.” Terrence said that simple awareness can make people feel less isolated. “When you’re in prison, it’s easy to feel like nobody notices if you disappear,” he said. “So it helps knowing somebody will ask.”
Prison life tends to emphasize routine: counts, meals, work assignments, and recreation periods. Within that structure, people create their own smaller communities.
For the LGBTQ inmates who gather at the table near the laundry area, The Circle, though they rarely use the name out loud, has become one of those communities. “It’s just a place to sit and talk safely,” Marisol said. At the end of most evenings, the group breaks up shortly before the final count. Chess pieces go back into lockers, coffee cups are rinsed in the sink, and everyone returns to their bunks.
In a place where LGBTQ offenders are targeted because of their identity, The Circle protects those in the dorm from uncomfortable conversations or physical altercations with those who marginalize and discriminate against those seen in the Georgia Department of Corrections as most vulnerable.
B Speaks is a writer and advocate interested in prison/criminal justice reform, LGBTQ rights, and government/cultural criticism. A graduate of the University of South Carolina, B served as a political strategist and grassroots organizer in Washington D.C. Currently incarcerated in Georgia, B writes to expose and challenge the realities of the carceral system, advocating for justice reform and the voices often left unheard.