State Property
Kimberly Hricko entered prison in 1999, when inmates still wore street clothes and ordered from JCPenney. In 2025, a piece of cardboard is contraband.
CIT confiscated my kitchen during the first mass shakedown at the Maryland Correctional Institution for Women. Well, it wasn’t a kitchen so much as a two-by-three foot apparatus made of pieces of cardboard glued together and thickly laminated with packing tape.
My kitchen was shaped perfectly to fit on top of the combination sink/toilet in my cell. It was an amazingly sturdy, watertight ad hoc countertop that I’d had for years. I used it to mix batches of cookie dough, cut vegetables for salads (with my plastic knife), and create delicious pasta dishes reminiscent of Goodfellas. Alas, it was a contraband item, as were most of the ingredients that had graced its utilitarian surface. That I’d managed to keep my kitchen for as long as I did was itself a kind of miracle. I knew the jig was up as I watched homemade cardboard bookcases, entertainment centers, and other creatively crafted furniture sail out from searched cells into a big pile on the rec floor. I and about a hundred of my closest peers were rounded up in the recreation area for five hours that night, sleepy, wearing our pajamas, praying for a break. It was a rough one.
Ridicule of carceral absurdity is soul balm to women caught in a system designed for and run by men.
The team of officers that stormed in that night wore dark blue windbreakers and full tactical gear. Maybe they expected more resistance than we were prepared to give. In any case, we’d never seen this group before. They resembled FBI agents of the ubiquitous television cop show, save the large yellow ‘CIT’ emblazoned on their backs. We inmates talked amongst ourselves like a human internet, trying to find someone who knew what this new acronym meant. No one seemed to know. Although we were forbidden to speak to these officers, I took a chance and asked one of them what CIT stood for.
“Contraband Interdiction Team, ma’am,” the officer said.
I turned to the ladies closest to me and asked, “What on earth does interdiction mean?” A quick sweep of the area revealed that none of us knew. My dictionary was off limits, across the imaginary police line and therefore useless. Of course, I could deduce the meaning from the other two words in the name, but there’s no fun in that. Instead I applied myself to inventing simpler, more enjoyable definitions for CIT. After all, who uses a word nobody knows in an acronym? They’re practically begging to be clowned. Ridicule of carceral absurdity is soul balm to women caught in a system designed for and run by men. I began brainstorming.
“How about the Captive Inspection Team?” I suggested.
“Oooo, or call them the Cell Intelligence Team,” countered Saira.
“They seem kind of official, so maybe the Certified Inspection Team?” said Kristi.
“The Creative Infringement Team!” Saira laughed. We were really getting into this now, generating quite a little buzz among the women.
“How about the Clothing Counting Team?” This was offered by a woman we did not know and who clearly did not understand the game. Another cardboard shelf flew from the top tier to the floor.
“No! I got it! It’s the Cardboard Inventory Team,” I said. “It’s perfect.”
The name spread like wildfire through the rec. Soon women were saying it in a snarky way, loudly, yet not directly to the officers. Thank God the officers were wearing fatigues and could weather our witty attack. We were frustrated and powerless but at least we felt superior.
Stripped: Denied the Right To a Woman’s Wardrobe
Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women didn’t allow us to order from outside vendors or carry cosmetics on personal property. I had learned to use a #2 pencil as eyeliner and to make a sort of paint for my eyelids out of colored pencils.
As inmates, we are permitted to possess a specific number of items in a specific category as outlined by Maryland law. From clothing to square feet of paperwork, you name it and there is a strict limit. Things not listed in the code shall be confiscated.
Maryland inmates can order allowable property twice a year, through approved prison catalogs. Prison catalogs are unlike any other kind of catalog. They have generic names like Union Supply, Access, Jack L. Marcus, or Walkenhorst’s and from their pages, one can buy all things inmate. They offer huge varieties of white tennis shoes, brown boots, grey sweatpants/shorts/tee shirts/sweatshirts. Even the pajamas are grey, to match the concrete I guess. The electronic appliances are made of clear plastic so that inmates can’t hide, let’s say, a shank inside their calculator, and include everything from 15” flat screen televisions to hotpots, blow dryers, and remote controls. These transparent items are manufactured by unknown manufacturers like Coby, Hiteker, and ClearTech. No Sony or Apple. The prices are incredibly high but possessions are very important to us. Legally purchased items can’t be confiscated from their owner by search officers. An inmate’s personal property gives her something akin to gravitas. Searches feel invasive, but once the officers leave, she’ll still be comfortable. We pore over these sacred volumes twice a year before making our strictly controlled purchases.
Things weren’t always this tight. I hit the grounds in 1999 when inmates still wore regular street clothes. Naturally, there were forbidden colors and styles, but for the most part we could purchase clothing from any retail catalog twice a year. JCPenney. L.L. Bean. Land’s End.
Ah, those were the days. In 2005, Maryland got a big chunk of money from Big Tobacco and was flush with cash. The idea at the time was to put us all in uniforms and by doing that, make prisons safer. One by one, they converted Maryland’s twenty-two prisons into uniform institutions. We waited in line to hand over our colorful clothing and a piece of our identity in return for two stiff pairs of state jeans, four chambray shirts, and a boxy denim coat. Each was branded with DOC in six inch letters, an acronym with which we were familiar.
MCIW’s switch to uniforms was by far the most drastic reduction of our ever-evolving list of allowable property, but hardly the only one. Every new administration subtracts articles for one reason or another. This year alone we’ve lost insulated coffee cups, sewing kits, tweezers, denim shorts, and plastic hangers. There is a rule that states, more or less, that items may not be removed from an inmate’s possession because of a change in the allowable property rules. Thank God. This is how many of us still have colorful things like bed linens, rugs, pajamas, or tennis shoes. We hold onto them like gold. A seasoned inmate can calculate the number of years another inmate has been locked up by a quick look at her cell or her outfit. We survey these things with intention. It’s a legitimate pastime.
“Did you see her boots? They’re adorable,” I might ask.
“Yeah, wonder what prison catalog they came from,” Saira would say, knowing damn well they weren’t from any of our pitiful books.
“She’s had them under her bed for years, I bet,” Kristi might add.
“They look brand new, she took good care of them,” I’d be forced to admit.
“I like her jeans too. I remember when we could get those,” Saira would say wistfully. And I would understand.
The loss of something treasured but replaceable, like my kitchen, is sad, but the loss of something irreplaceable is a real blow. I still mourn the 12” oscillating fan that I lost when I went to the hospital for emergency gallbladder surgery. Another inmate had to have stolen it while my property was being packed up by officers. It happens. I look at my wimpy 8” replacement fan with resentment. Stupid gallbladder.
When my kitchen was dumped onto the trash heap, I admit I got a little choked up. I could make another, but I haven’t. I am not sure when CIT will come again, or when any search of my cell will be conducted, for that matter. The risk of getting attached to a new kitchen and having my heart broken again is just too great.
“Shit, I left my mittens in the gym,” Aimee cried.
“Oh, you know they’re gone,” Saira said. “Wanna go back and see if they’re there?”
“I already did. They’re not.”
“I’ll tell you if I see any bitch trying to wear them,” I promised. Maybe I’ll send CIT to find them, I thought to myself.
Kimberly Hricko is an incarcerated writer in Maryland where she finds purpose through advocacy and service. She has been published by The Marshall Project, Vice, and Washington Post.
Yes, I’m the Kristi in this story. Kim captures the importance of these creature comforts in a place where they are so limited. One thing we always noticed during these searches, which no doubt took a lot of planning and manpower: they rarely confiscated any weapons, drugs, or anything serious. Cardboard and extra rolls of toilet paper were the most common. Congratulations to them, I guess.
Kristi, keep writing. We on the outside have no idea! Sending as much comfort as possible; thanks for postings.