Note: This blog is the third of a series based on interviews with three men currently held in the Penitentiary of New Mexico who are part of a class action lawsuit challenging the inhumane and unconstitutional conditions of New Mexico’s long-term solitary confinement unit.

Movies and TV played a big part in the strong relationship GuJuan has with his mom. Some of his greatest childhood memories are of going to Blockbuster on Fridays with his mom, renting seven or eight movies, stocking up on candy, and spending the weekend watching them together.

He also developed a passion for reading at an early age. It all started when he discovered a book called Emako Blue, about a young Black girl navigating her uncertain and difficult world. “It was the first time I saw a Black kid in a book,” GuJuan says. “That book’s stuck with me my whole life; it’s what brought me into reading.” Now, GuJuan loves reading all kinds of books, but especially horror and historical fiction. He loves anything by Anne Rice; “I can read her ALL day long.”

GuJuan was locked up for the first time when he was 14. He was 20 when he first went to adult prison. Because he has not been given the help that he needs, GuJuan has struggled to change the path that started with his juvenile incarceration. This is GuJuan’s second time in the solitary confinement unit. He has spent over a third of his sentence in the unit, including a time when he went nine consecutive months without family contact.

“I was interested in being a part of this lawsuit because of the simple fact that what they're doing to us is cruel—we're being treated like animals,” GuJuan says. “They’re not doing anything to help us become better people, grow as men, or grow as human beings—they're worsening it. I want them to give us the power to be able to make something of ourselves, to grow for ourselves. That’s the power we want.” 

"What they're doing to us is cruel—we're being treated like animals."

Dehumanizing 

Although the Corrections Department calls the solitary unit a “program” aimed at addressing problematic behaviors, in truth, the men confined there just sit in concrete boxes and suffer for months and years on end. “All I feel is dehumanized and lied to,” GuJuan says. “It’s wrong what they are doing to us.” 

GuJuan reflects on how his life has been shaped by the streets, admitting he’s striving to learn and be a responsible adult. “I’m turning 35, and I don’t even know what a grown man is yet. I’ve never experienced how to be a grown man with responsibilities.” He hopes that people will begin to see him and others in the unit “not for who we were, but for who we’re trying to be.” He acknowledges and takes responsibility for his past mistakes but emphasizes, “that’s not who I am, and not who I want to be.” 

What They Need 

When talking about what would be a better alternative to solitary confinement, GuJuan says, “Teach us. Show us. Give us outlets to deal with our anger, deal with our depression, and grow as individuals and as people—not just lock us in a cell for 23 hours a day. Teach us skills, how to balance a checkbook, and fill out job applications.”

“What would make for less violence in prison? Opportunity!"

“What would make for less violence in prison? Opportunity!” Many of the men locked up in the solitary unit grew up in situations in which they had no real opportunities. When they were bored, they got into trouble. “It’s the same cycle,” GuJuan says, “But it's worse up here—nothing to do, no contact, no outlet. Give us something to do, something to care about. If we have no hope that something is going to change, eventually we just give up.”

Fear of Being with People 

GuJuan has been in prison for 12 years, and he is getting ready to go home next year. “I'm scared to death,” GuJuan says. “I've been stuck in a room by myself for over two years with no significant contact except someone putting handcuffs on me to take a shower. I'm scared I'm going to get out and not know how to deal with people.”

Even being back in the general prison population was challenging for GuJuan after his previous stay in solitary. “It was horrible,” he says. “After having no human contact except yelling through doors or cages, then going to constant interaction and noise, I was on edge.” That was why GuJuan got in trouble again and ended up back in solitary. “I’m so prone to having bad anxiety being around people—I’m scared the same thing can happen on the streets.”

“If I could change by myself, I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

His mom is so excited to finally have her son home again, and GuJuan doesn’t want to mess it up. “She has the same fears as me,” he says, “she’s so supportive, but there’s only so much about what I’m going through that she can understand.” 

Mental healthcare and resources would help bridge this gap, but GuJuan has received no professional help while in solitary confinement. “This place has done nothing to help me,” he says. “If I could change by myself, I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Fighting for Others 

“I want to make sure the world knows that we need help here. There are people that want change in their lives. We're tired of being nothing,” GuJuan says. “Change needs to come and we can't do it alone. If the world comes to help us, we won't let them down—this isn't just a fluke for attention; this is real life, and we want change.” 

According to GuJuan, being part of the ACLU’s lawsuit gives him and those in the unit a voice. “Now the world can see we're more than a prison number,” he says. “We're humans and we want to be looked at as such. I want to be a man, husband, father, and son. I want to be happy. I don't want to be a criminal, convict, or stereotype.” 

What We Need 

“We don't want to be pitied—the attention we want is to be seen as people,” GuJuan says. He wants to be allowed to participate in prison programming, like anger management, cognitive therapy, and educational opportunities. “That’s the kind of attention we want.”

“I want to feel safe talking to a mental health professional."

Individuals in the solitary confinement unit only get to speak with mental health staff through their cell doors, and usually only for a few minutes once a week. “We can’t talk about our anxiety and fears when 12 other men can hear our weaknesses,” GuJuan says. “I want to feel safe talking to a mental health professional; that’s the whole point—but they don't offer us a safe place.”

“I'm going home, but there are people who will have to keep dealing with this dungeon, this hell,” he says. “They have nobody to talk to. That’s why I’m so passionate. If I’m able to be part of the spark that does bring change to future people going through this, it’s an honor to me.”

Note: This blog is the second of a series based on interviews with three men currently held in the Penitentiary of New Mexico who are part of a class action lawsuit challenging the inhumane and unconstitutional conditions of New Mexico’s long-term solitary confinement unit. 

At just 13, the Adidas Jr. Phenomenon Camp ranked O’Shay as the seventh-best young point guard in the nation. Now-NBA player Andrew Wiggins was ranked sixth. “Basketball was my way out of the streets,” O’Shay says. But that same year, a mistake that led to juvenile arrest at just 13 cost him everything. He was expelled from school and lost all his sponsors. After that, deprived of opportunities, he remained entangled in the juvenile criminal system.

The first time O’Shay went to adult prison, he was 19. “Now I'm 30,” O’Shay says. “I'm trying to be different—but how if they won't let me? I’ve proven that when given opportunities, I can take advantage of them.” For example, he recently got his paralegal certificate so he could “make a difference and help fellas out.” 

“I'm trying to be different—but how if they won't let me?"

“I got involved in this lawsuit to help those who have come through this process,” O’Shay says. “Having been here for so much time, knowing what we've been going through—I want to help to fix it and make it so people don't get stuck up here. I’m thinking outside of myself.”

The Cycle 

This is O’Shay’s fourth time in the solitary confinement unit. He has spent about five years—half of his sentence—in the unit. He says many men there have the same story. After being sent to the unit once, it became impossible to escape the red flag on their record.

“After that, anything you do, they’ll put you in solitary up here,” O’Shay says. For example, the Corrections Department policy says that a one-on-one fight is a disciplinary infraction that should carry a penalty of no more than 30 days in segregation. But people who have been sent to the solitary confinement unit once just get sent right back there. This practice ties people to mistakes they made years ago, usually when they were young and impressionable. It deprives them of the ability to grow and learn from those mistakes, making it difficult for them to move forward. 

"...anything you do, they’ll put you in solitary up here."

The first thing that many people entering the general population from the solitary confinement unit want to do is get a job within the prison, something to keep them occupied and to contribute to those incarcerated with them. But O’Shay says that the last time he left the solitary unit, no one would hire him. “I was stuck in the pod with nothing to do.”

The Shock of Return 

“It's tough to go back to the general population,” O’Shay says. “It's a shock because we're not used to communicating with nobody.” He says that people who have been in solitary for a long time—often years—can have mental breakdowns in the general population. Those struggling to function around people after so long in isolation are not met with resources or understanding. “Instead of realizing that someone's been locked down for five years and might be going crazy, they want to just punish, which makes it worse,” O’Shay says.

He says the prison system needs to give the men in the solitary unit ways to interact with each other so that they have social skills and can cope when they go back to the population. But in solitary confinement, “there’s no peer mentor groups, no gatherings behind bars. That many years... it hardens people.” 

Family Trauma 

O’Shay’s mom has multiple sclerosis, and he says that even though she’s dealing with a serious illness, she’s always worried about him. “If I don't call for a few days, she assumes something happened to me,” he says. “She kinda has long-range PTSD from me being in and out of seg for so long.” He says his daughter doesn’t understand why he can’t come home, which breaks his heart. 

The last contact visit O’Shay remembers having with anyone was in 2018. “I haven't even hugged my family in many years,” he says. “A lot of us have that same story. One of the things the fellas struggle with most is it’s so hard to maintain family ties.”

Trying to Heal 

Almost all the men in the solitary confinement unit are struggling with trauma and mental illness. O’Shay says the unit makes all that harder, because “you can’t break down in here.” He says when people can’t talk to each other about the heavy things they’re going through and are given no productive outlet for that emotional turmoil, they eventually just can’t take it anymore, and that’s when violence happens. O’Shay wishes prison staff would think about the underlying causes of this behavior but says “no one asks why or tries to help us change.” 

"It would be in everybody’s best interest to invest in those who struggle."

What They Need 

Recently, O’Shay watched a show about a father-daughter program at the San Quentin prison in California. They did a prom day, where the men got to wear suits and dance with their daughters. “If they can do that in San Quentin, why can’t we have that here?” he wonders.

O’Shay also believes that trained “prisoner mitigation groups”—groups of incarcerated men whose job would be to calm incidents before they escalate—would help reduce violence in prisons. “The fellas in tense situations would respond better to us than the correctional officers,” he says, and that could be better for everyone.

“I want people to know that there are a lot of good people in here in bad situations,” O’Shay says. “We've made our mistakes and do not claim to be perfect, but we also don't deserve to be viewed as inhuman. We have families and feelings too. There's not one of us who doesn't want better for ourselves. No one wants or likes to live as a dog does. Everybody can't be saved but many of us can be. Everyone does deserve a second chance with actual help and opportunities to live a better life that many of us have never experienced before. If you care about society, it would be in everybody’s best interest to invest in those who struggle.” 

My words are deeper than you can dig up with a shovel,
You can never understand me until you rise up to my level,
The heights of greatness from the bottom pickin' fights with the devil.
The truth burns, Everything I'm speakin' is hot like a kettle.
Look in my eyes & remember only the strong survive,
I've seen people lose their life tryin' too hard to jive.
Christmas in December all family vibes,
But prison's cold in the winter ain't no love inside
Phone restriction because of missions but we had to ride.
We call it survival...Outsiders call it pride.
How? I've seen grown men breakdown & cry, &
Lifers go crazy they'll never see freedom alive.
Everyday we miss our family & our children.
Hidden emotions, people take advantage of your feelins.
How can we put trust into the system when they view us as a villain?
Ain't no democracy in prison D.O.C movin' like the Kremlin.
We Prisoners Of War, but politics aren't behind us,
Cut off from the world
If I didn't speak, you wouldn't find us! 

Poem written by O'Shay Toney, who is currently incarcerated in the Penitentiary of New Mexico.