128. Earning Freedom (7.3), by Michael Santos Prison Professors

I’m continuing to read from my book Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term. This is the third installment of chapter 7, covering months 93 through 95 of my confinement, in 1995.
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Other prisoners have told me that the bus ride to FCI Fairton only takes a few hours, and I’m determined not to waste this opportunity to enjoy our American landscape.  Still in a state of euphoria over news of my transfer, I don’t nap as we drive the two-lane highway that feels far too narrow for this bus. Other than a few days in Manhattan, I’ve never been in the Northeast. The road signs that announce the Delaware River, Philadelphia, The Ben Franklin Bridge, and The George Washington Bridge remind me of American history. The irony of the moment isn’t lost on me. I’m in the birthplace of our nation, close to the Liberty Bell, the places where early American leaders signed The Constitution and The Declaration of Independence, guaranteeing freedom for all, and I’m in chains.
My only essential need at Fairton is permission to receive packages of books from the university library. I’d like to have access to a word processor, but if the education department denies that, I’m confident my professors will accept handwritten term papers.
Radio station announcements I hear through the bus’s speakers inform me that we’re near a major metropolitan area. I like the idea of being in the most densely populated area of our country. Fairton is close to New York, Washington, Philadelphia, and even Boston. Certainly Bruce will find it easier to travel here for visits. Maybe Dr. DiIulio will bring more students from Princeton for another field trip.
When we pull into FCI Fairton, I see that like McKean and Miami, it’s a modern facility, with clusters of stone buildings on manicured lawns, all enclosed by high chain-link fences and coils of shiny razor wire. I actually welcome the sight of those fences. They’re so much more inviting than the high, impregnable penitentiary walls topped by gun-towers.
After the processing ritual of forms, fingerprinting, mug shots, and strip searches, I carry my bedroll to the D-right housing unit. In this population of 1,500, a few familiar faces from McKean and Atlanta welcome me.  They lend shoes, sweatshirts, and toiletries until my belongings arrive from McKean.
I’m assigned to a room with Henry, a Colombian who is my age and doesn’t speak English. Although I’m not fluent, I’ve learned enough Spanish to express myself and I understand his explanations about the routines at Fairton. Henry helps me secure a job as a unit orderly, and I assume responsibility for cleaning toilets in a common-area restroom. I’m grateful for a job that will give me sufficient time to study after I make the necessary arrangements with the education department.
The number of books in Fairton’s library impresses me. I browse through rows of bookshelves and see thousands of paperbacks with titles by Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, and other writers of classic American literature, few of which I’ve read. The heavy coursework I’m studying limits my reading to nonfiction, mostly from the social sciences. To round out my education, I want to read these authors, but right now leisure reading isn’t a luxury I can afford. Time is a precious resource, and despite the length of my sentence, I don’t have enough of it.
I began college as a way to overcome the stigma of my crime. Not being a natural scholar, I have to work hard, but as I’ve progressed through my confinement, I’ve come to love the process of learning. Now I look forward to doing the critical analysis and writing required to earn my doctorate.
Reluctantly, I leave the shelves of fiction and present myself at the office door of Ms. Howell, Fairton’s supervisor of education. She wears her black hair tightly pulled back in a severe bun. Her glasses hang from a burgundy strap like a necklace. She’s at