Opinion | An essay on food and community in prison

Editor’s note: This essay has been edited for length from its original version.

Food is the ultimate equalizer. Sitting around a table breaking bread is far more than just having a meal; it’s the true form of peace talks, a common thread that we can all agree on: “I’m hungry. Feed me.”

I grew up in a home where we had family meals often. It was a relaxed opportunity for my parents to “interrogate” my brother and I.

As Dad cut his pork chop, he’d ask, “So, did you get your score on your math test today?” Of course, he already had received the intel from Mom. But it was his way of prompting me to discuss whatever was on my mind, and I did. Things hard to face were discussed, emotions of the day were shared, and many separate happenings merged into one collective memory.

My first chow-hall experience in prison was a far cry from this. We were marched in and sat where we were told to sit. No chit-chat because we were marched right back out eight minutes later. But I was determined to find a way to create a family-type supper even in prison.

Luckily, the prison had a commissary where we could order various food items once a week. Three inmates in my cell block and I each ordered a few commissary items that I’d use to prepare our first Saturday night supper. My menu: ramen noodle casserole, apple salad and pop-tart cake (don’t ask). This was a gourmet meal compared to what was being served in the chow hall.

I spent the week making paper plates from cracker boxes and gathering contraband ingredients from around the prison. In the unit, I set the table and served the food, and we all laughed and talked and shared our day’s events. It was the one thing that brought us together — the equalizer, a shared meal.

Over my 30 years in prison, I have had many such suppers. My recipes have grown, and my guest lists have changed, but each supper has been an event where walls were let down and friendships developed. It was a good thing.

I discovered that my supper mates and I had more in common than we ever imagined. Sharing a meal allowed us to drop the bravado and the layers of emotional protection, and we simply existed as human beings who needed to eat. Slowly, a community formed, and it became my prison family.

Good things end quickly in prison because of the transient nature of the population being indiscriminately moved from one facility to another. The general motto is, “It’s good till it’s not.” Some inmates find themselves living in the moment and embracing the good happenings. Others don’t get involved and insulate themselves from continual grief over the loss of goodness. I have been on both ends of that spectrum and must continually push myself to embrace life in the moment.

Recently, I found myself being transferred to a different prison with a reputation for violence. I was placed in the absolute bloodiest unit. Correctional officers were often afraid to be there, allowing all 128 inmates to run wild.

I saw the inmates eyeing my property as I dragged a few clear garbage bags into the unit. I wondered if the theft would involve getting beaten up or stabbed with homemade shanks. Would I be raped in the process? I felt the certainty of violence of some kind — when, where and how were the only unknowns.

I walked into an empty cell. The previous occupants had just been taken to the hole for stabbing an older man for his commissary and hygiene items. The cell was filthy, with human waste still in the toilet and black soot still on the walls from burning cigarettes hand-rolled with Bible pages. Behind me walked in a younger man, tall with imposing features, his clear bags of property in tow — my new celly. The officer pushed the cell door shut because the prison was going on lockdown. There we were, two strangers in a nasty eight-by-10-foot cell sizing each other up.

I introduced myself, and he responded, “I’m Too Tall. I’m a Crip, are you affiliated?”

“No,” I responded. He didn’t look too surprised. We each went about our business, putting stuff away on the rusty metal shelves and cleaning the best we could with a rag and a bar of soap. The roaches scurried about as we intruded on their spaces. No words were spoken, just two bodies moving in a dance learned from years of occupying small spaces.

By nightfall, only a flickering fluorescent bulb remained to light our space. I looked at the few commissary items I had: a summer sausage, a bar of cheese, a pickle, a bottle of mustard and a sleeve of crackers. I decided to open up all the items as I knew they would be stolen when the lockdown lifted. I meticulously laid six crackers each on two separate pieces of notebook paper. I tore the sausage and cheese into 12 pieces and did the same for the pickle. With a dab of mustard on each cracker, I stacked the ingredients to form appetizers. My celly lay silently on his bunk, never taking his eyes from my operation.

“Too Tall, here. I made us some snacks,” I said as I handed him the paper lined with six meat-filled crackers. With a slight hesitation, he extended his hands, took the snacks and allowed a wrinkly smile to form in the corner of his mouth. The rest of the night, we talked about our families, our pasts and all the crazy prison stories we had accumulated over the years. Food became our common experience, a lighthearted and unpretentious moment to relax and be vulnerable and safe.

As it turned out, Too Tall was the enforcer for his gang. That title represents everything you may think it does. In fact, he had just returned from a stint in the hole for “enforcing” on a person who disrespected one of his gang brothers. The lockdown was lifted when morning came, and Too Tall was quickly out of the cell. I sat on my bunk, awaiting my fate. I looked around the small room to see my available defense mechanisms. I decided to hold a hardback book to try to stop any knives being thrust at me.

Soon, Too Tall entered the cell and exclaimed, “You won’t have any trouble. I told the brothers they would have to deal with me if they thought about doing anything stupid where you are concerned.” And that was that. Sharing a few cracker snacks formed a bond of humanity between two people from very different worlds.

In this prison, I have found it more challenging to gather a party of convicts around a table to emulate my earlier experiences. Still, I have found various ways to open doors and create bonds using food as the equalizer. Simply sharing a homemade burrito or microwave creation with someone I found intimidating or threatening was my way of saying, “Hello, I care about you as a human being sharing this prison experience with me, and I want you to be happy.” And trust me — sharing a burrito is much less stressful than carrying a shank for protection.

I’m sure I did not make Mom and Dad proud by being in prison, but I did make them proud by continuing a custom of family and community in a place in great need of both. Perhaps before building a fence between you and your neighbor’s house, try delivering a plate of cookies instead. Extend your hand, even to the scary “celly” in your own neighborhood. You may find your best friend as a result and someone who has your back when troubles loom.

In prison where it seems safer to carry a knife, why not decide it’s not? Instead, find the humanity shared between everyone: “I’m hungry. Feed me. Love me.”

Tony Vick is a prisoner of the Tennessee Department of Corrections in the privately operated South Central Correctional Facility in Clifton, Tennessee.

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This article appears in January 29, 2025.