1. 60 beyond race magazine
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beyond race magazine 61
Route 374 leads through the northeastern part of
Adirondack Park, a scenic 6.1 million acre expanse in
upstate New York that becomes harsh, gray, and desolate in
the winter months. For miles the road leads through snow-
blanketed mountains and valleys—tall spiky evergreens,
the only sign of life in this backwater tundra that covers
the same amount of land area as the state of Vermont. Just
south of Canada, though, in the heart of Clinton County,
the rigid, frozen tree limbs that frame the highway give
way to Dannemora, a small prison town, and, for a few
miles, route 374 becomes Cook Street.
As you pass the green and gold sign that reads “Welcome
to Dannemora,” a massive beige wall emerges ominously
from the right side of the horizon like a giant concrete
beast. Behind that stone wall lies Clinton Correctional
Facility, a super-maximum security prison known as “little
Siberia”. In the right light, this massive panopticon literally
overshadows the rest of “downtown.” Cook Street serves
as the demarcation between two extremely different but
symbiotic worlds. Dannemora is a middle class community
with a collection of small-tract one and two family houses.
If you’ve stopped here, you are not a tourist.
With just about 3 out of every 4 of its residents living in
this state penitentiary, most of the town either lives in
the prison, works in the prison, or works for one of the
peripheral businesses that cater to those working at, or
visiting, the prison.
The 2000 census reported 4,129 residents living here in the
village of Dannemora. Of these, nearly 2900 lie within the
prison’s massive walls. In effect, since the prison’s inception
in 1845, when prisoners were used to mine mountains in the
area, this small town has lived off the prisoners that have
to be housed, fed, managed, and rehabilitated in Clinton
Correctional Facility. Like numerous upstate towns,
Dannemora’s very existence is subsidized by a constant
influx of downstate prisoners.
The residents of Dannemora are eking out a living from a
sprawling New York State prison industry in which the
state alone hires approximately 31,000 full time employees.
It’s a savage form of economic redevelopment. With most
of the mining, logging and manufacturing industries
long gone, much of upstate and western New York faces
a serious economic crisis. Governor Elliot Spitzer even
made the revitalization of upstate New York a plank in his
campaign platform.
Upstate New York politicians prop up their failing economies with downstate prisoners—but at what cost?
In a time when people are looking to fill a niche, the term
“Jack of all trades” doesn’t get thrown around much. Cevin
Soling may bring about a rebirth of the title. Soling is a
filmmaker whose resume includes The War On The War on
Drugs and Hole In The Head. He also writes strange short
stories, plays in a band called The Love Kills Theory, which
he describes as “sort of a cross between Devo and Gang
of Four, but going deeper into the philosophical side,”
and will soon be a diplomat. While the first three gigs
are clearly artistic endeavors, becoming a diplomat seems
to be a bit of a diversion. He jokes, “I wanted diplomatic
immunity ever since I saw Lethal Weapon 2.”
In reality, the quest to become a diplomat happened by
chance, when Soling ended up on the State Department’s
mailing list after contemplating a trip to Mongolia. He
remembers, “They notified me of the Foreign Service
Officer written exam, which is the test to be a diplomat,
and I passed it. After that, I had to go to Washington DC
for an oral exam and I passed that. Now I’m just sitting
back and waiting for an appointment somewhere.” Soling’s
lone wish, when it comes to where he’ll be headed, is, that
they don’t send him to a war zone, “because I’ve been there
and done that.” This happened when he was filming a
documentary on a little known tribe called the Ik.
The Ik were the subject of an anthropological study
published in 1972; the final finding was that the
anthropologist felt the tribe was so awful that they should
be separated and their culture should be exterminated.
“Every person was out for themselves,” Soling says of
the Ik, “they would steal food from the mouths of the
elderly, they would let their kids starve, they didn’t sing,
there were no expressions of joy, and the only time they
would laugh would be at the misfortune of one another.”
Soling wanted to see how bad it really was. Since National
Geographic was working in the area, he put the word out
about his idea. Fortunately, there was one photographer/
videographer, out of the 40 people Soling contacted, brave
enough to go with him.
To get to the Ik, Soling and his partner had to go through
the LRA (Lord’s Resistance Army): “The LRA was fighting
a civil war there and they’re just about the worst group of
people to ever grace this planet. They go into villages and
shoot parents in the legs, hand the guns to the kids and
say they have to kill their parents or they’ll kill them and
their parents. Then they kidnap the kids and make them
fight for the LRA.” During a mission Soling undertook to
get supplies to a missionary outpost, the LRA shot at his
vehicle, blasting out one of the tires. In the end, he finally
made it to the Ik and found them to be in better shape than
before. He believes that the last anthropologist caught
them when they were starving.
The concept of being a diplomat is one that screams of irony
for Soling, who has spent most of his life with a “persistent
sense of frustration and resentment of authority.” In fact,
his most recent film, The War On The War On Drugs, is an all
out blitz against the US government’s anti-drug policies.
Soling says the film is not a documentary, even though
many insist on labeling it as such. For Soling, the film
is more of an educational satire. He points out the many
wrongdoings and inconsistencies of the government’s drug
policies and then pokes fun at them. At one point, there’s
a mention of two stats that show completely different
results from the anti-drug ad campaigns. One says that
heroin usage is down, so the government takes this as a
sign that the ads are working and throws more money at
the situation. The second stat says that ecstasy usage is up.
Rather than the likelihood that the ads don’t work, the
government believes that they simply needed more of them
and throw money, once again, at the situation.
Up next for Soling is The War On Kids. This film, which he’s
already shot, deals with society and “how badly screwed
over the last few generations of kids have been, and how
bad it is now.” When it comes to the plot, he says “This
one deals with schools and the degree to which schools
have become run like prisons and, in some cases, worse
than prisons….It was really distressing how much nicer an
environment the prison was to the school environment in
just about all regards, including education…The cafeteria
was much nicer also. The food is ironically the same. ARA
provides the same quality food to prisons as they do to
high school.”
words by Adam Bernard
photos by Kelly Segre
The Adventurous Life of
Cevin Soling
Soling
PRISONSTOCKTurning Prisoners Into Lucre
words by Manny Jalonschi
photos by Irma Cannavo

2. 62 beyond race magazine beyond race magazine 63
Although upstate New York produces less than a quarter of
the state’s prison population, it holds over 90 percent of
that population in its system.
The $2.7 billion prison economy is often seen as a salve
for the economic woes of these areas, and local politicians
scramble to have their town be the next location of a prison
expansion.
A Georgia Pacific paper plant and Bombardier factory
are the only other big employers in the region and they
are nowhere near Dannemora. From a satellite photo, one
would get a clearer impression of the real transaction that
drives this city. There’s a big concrete pen. Those inside the
pen represent the livelihoods of those outside the pen.
The state is currently holding approximately 63,500
prisoners in its 69 state prisons. According to the Prison
Policy Initiative, over 43,000 of those prisoners are
residents of New York City and yet are incarcerated in an
upstate prison, just about two out of every three prisoners.
Conveniently enough, for funding and census purposes,
prisoners are considered residents of the town they are
imprisoned in.
This alone is pretty good incentive to house a prison in
an upstate region that needs as much government aid as
possible. But besides the fact that this means that upstate
districts get disproportionately high federal and state
funds for residents that don’t actually live there, it also
means that their upstate districts have a disproportionate
amount of weight relative to the amount of residents
actually living there. In effect, it takes less actual voters to
fill up a legislative district.
In upstate New York, this translates to 7 state senate
districts that are more than 5 percent short of their
required population, which, according to the Prison Policy
Initiative, is a direct violation of a Supreme Court ruling
on the subject. All 7 of those districts are represented
by rural Republicans on the State Senate—all 7 of those
Republicans advocate for stricter laws and lengthier
sentences.
Since 1984, of the 38 prisons that have been built to
accommodate the inmate population, all 38 of them
have been located in upstate New York. State legislators
have one major reward in mind when they lobby for the
building of a prison in their district: the revitalization of
their economies. A prison offers the promise of hundreds
of middle class-enabling prison jobs, most starting at over
$30,000 a year, plus benefits.
Some upstate politicians are better than others at getting
a slice of the prison pie, and quite a few of them depend
on the industry as an economic scaffold for their policies.
State Senator Elizabeth O’C. Little (Rep.-Adirondacks) has
over 5,000 corrections officers living in her district. There
are 12 prisons and prison camps in her district, including
Clinton Correctional Facility.
State Senator Dale Volker, a former small-town policeman,
has represented the heavily gerrymandered 59th
Senate
District with virtually unchallenged ease since 1975. FIve
major prisons, Attica, Wyoming, Buffalo, Collins, and
Wende, sit in his district generating thousands of jobs
and padding up his already secure powerbase. He chairs
the State Senate Committee on Codes from where he can
protect his key moneymaker.
Volker and fellow Republican State Senator Mike Nozzolio
represent the two districts that house nearly one-quarter
of the state’s prison population. Senator Nozzolio, whose
district is home to four major prisons (Butler, Five Points,
Auburn Correctional Facilities, and the Willard Drug
Treatment Center) may very well be the master of getting
prison industry money. With Five Points prison alone
generating over $25 million in payroll annually, he has
long fought for the best possible positions from which he
can ensure a steady stream of “customers” for his district’s
penitentiaries. After years of politicking his way up the
state ranks, Nozziolio is Chairman of the Senate Crime
Victims, Crime and Correction Committee (to which
Senator Volker also belongs). Nozzolio also sits on the
Finance committee and the Judiciary Committee (as does
Volker).
Through the Crime Victims, Crime and Corrections
Committee, Nozzolio controls when and where new
prisons will be built in the state. From the Finance
Committee, he can now ensure the money is there for any
prison development he may need in the future. From the
Judiciary Committee, he controls which state judges do
or do not get appointed, thus ensuring that stricter judges
will eventually preside over New York State courtrooms
(i.e. judges who will increase the inmate population).
Nozzolio is an avid champion for “victims’ rights.” He has
often used this as a catch phrase to push for laws requiring
longer sentences. Nozzolio and Volker in fact have been
among the staunchest opponents of a bill that would repeal
the Rockefeller Drug Laws (which pack New York State
prisons with non-violent drug offenders).
But there is serious collateral damage in exchange for
this Kafka-esque economic development strategy. While
upstate communities benefit in jobs and additional
traffic, downstate communities are hurt by the fracture
of prisoners’ families. The New York State prison system,
which ships three quarters of its prisoners from New York
Citytoupstateandwesterntowns,essentiallyensuressuch
a fracture. A drive from New York City up to Dannemora,
for example, takes anywhere between 6 and 8 hours. From
New York City, there are nearly $40 dollars of tolls along
the way. In a compact car, it takes about $80 worth of gas
to get you all the way north and back.
Various “prison ride” bus companies have emerged to cater
to families looking to visit members in distant upstate
pens. In Brooklyn, they line up around 8 and 9pm, mostly
mothers and girlfriends, in a shivering pecking order.
Those who know the bus driver usually get the first pick
of the seats. Then a blue Bic pen follows the names on the
list and the bus fills towards the back. Sometimes there
isn’t enough room, so those at the bottom of the list, or
those who didn’t sign up, are left behind. The bus ride from
Brooklyn, after dozens of winding stops to pick up other
passengers, can take up to 14 hours, and cost anywhere
from 40 to 60 dollars. The upside is you don’t pay for gas
and tolls. The downside is up to 30 hours on the road.
For New York City families, these trips are a Herculean
effort to reunite with their loved ones. But much more goes
on then just conversations. During these family visits, ties
are maintained, built and strengthened with members
of the family as well as the community. These ties have
been shown in numerous studies to be key in successful
reentry into society. When an inmate leaves prison, he or
she relies heavily on these connections to find housing and
employment (the other two key elements in successful
reentry). Without these connections, prisoners face a very
challenging road back alone.
Jerry, now in his late 50’s, with a wrinkled bulldog face,
remembers his 24 years in Comstock (another upstate
prison) with loneliness and dread. Serving time for an
assault in the Bronx in the late ’70s, Jerry always thought
he’d get out before his term was up.
“They gave me all this extra time—they were ‘getting
tough’ on crime back then,” says Jerry wryly over a cup of
coffee at his ex-inmate support group. His mother, the only
family he’s ever had, never owned a car and could never find
a ride to visit him while he was imprisoned. They wrote
back and forth, though, and when the letters suddenly
stopped, Jerry lost his only contact with the outside world.
It would take him nearly a year to find out that his elderly
mother had suffered a heart attack and died alone in a
Coney Island hospital.
“When you come out, that’s when you remember how
much time has passed you by, how much you don’t know
and how much you need people.” Jerry had no contacts in
the outside world. Without a job, family, or an apartment,
Jerry had nothing to start over with. “They’re not gonna
hire you with a criminal record, everyone knows that.

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They’re not gonna hire you without an address, everyone
knows that. So you tell me, how the fuck am I supposed to
get my life together?”
The truth is that the recidivism rate in the United States
is abnormally high. Two in three released prisoners are
re-incarcerated within three years. Drug offenders are
not rehabilitated, merely punished. This ensures they will
violate again. Additionally, there is little to no effort made
to create bridges between convicts and the communities
from which they come; ties that would ensure a lower
crime-rate for the state and a return to normalcy for the
former prisoner.
The state spends little if any money on programs that seek
to train prisoners in a relevant work skills, thus ensuring
they will be unemployed when they exit. Jerry for example,
took two and a half years of small motor repair, and says,
“I don’t see any lawnmowers in my section of the Bronx.”
Despite the fact that any of these prison alternatives cost a
small fraction of what it cost to house and feed a prisoner,
upstate politicians have fought repeatedly for tougher laws
instead. Tougher laws and less prisoner support equals
more prisoners. More prisoners equals more prison money.
From the profit end, it’s a pretty simple equation.
The result downstate is a criminality cycle, where inmates
(especially inmate parents) upon release are more likely
to re-offend because of a lack of any connection to family
and community; and their family and community is more
likely to become criminalized due to separation from a
member of that family or community.
More simply put, upstate politicians push for stricter laws
and longer sentences because it maintains a large enough
prison population to keep up their local prison economies.
They have everything to gain, both in funds and legislative
weight, and very little to lose (there are no mansions lining
Cook Street in Dannemora anyway, per se).
And there is little hope that this will ever change. In 2007,
New York Governor Elliot Spitzer announced that, since
the prison population has been declining, some prisons
will eventually have to be closed. State Senators Volker,
O’C. Little and Nozzolio all immediately and uniformly
opposed the move. If they hadn’t, they’d probably lose
their jobs. The New York State Correctional Officers and
Police Benevolent Association has spent nearly $2 million
in recent years on campaigns to ensure tougher laws with
longer sentences.
And so it continues, a sick game of exploitation where
state politicians actively pursue an increase in the prison
system. It’s a Rockwell reality on methamphetamines.
Middle-class towns surviving mostly on the subjugation
of lower-class, downstate urban towns. Although upstate
New York produces less than a quarter of the state’s prison
population, it holds over 90 percent of that population
in its system. And so for decades now, and probably
for decades still, families have been built around the
suppression and processing of fellow humans.
After all, here on Cook Street, it’s quite obvious. Little but
snow is produced in Dannemora. Whatever youth there
is quickly escapes to nearby Plattsburgh in search of life.
There is nothing here…just a big brick jail and a town of
jailers.
“They’re not gonna hire you
with a criminal record,
everyone knows that. They’re
not gonna hire you without
an address, everyone knows
that. So you tell me, how
the fuck am I supposed to
get my life together?”