I was 22 years old when a male prison officer first suggested I find another job. “No offence,” he said, “but I don’t think women should work here.”
We were sitting in the education department of a high-security men’s prison, watching as inmates filed into the classrooms around us. I had only been in the job a few months, and was far from settled. The bars and barbed wire, the smells of sweat and stale smoke and cheap coffee, the sounds of shouting and running and alarm bells, the enormous Alsatians patrolling the perimeter wall — all were a constant reminder of where I was. And, for some officers at least, where I wasn’t meant to be.
Then: click, click, click. One by one, the classroom doors closed, leaving us seated in the corridor outside. This is standard in prisons. Officers don’t tend to sit in classrooms with inmates; that area belongs to the teachers. Similarly, officers tend not to be in treatment rooms when prisoners are seen by GPs, nurses and therapists. This meant it was possible, though certainly not common, for sexual relationships to take place between non-disciplinary staff and inmates. Not long after I joined, a female teacher was found in the cleaning cupboard with a prisoner serving over 30 years for multiple murder. They weren’t cleaning.
To read the rest of this article, become a member for free.