(Content warning: Transphobia, Microaggressions, AFAB chest terminology/slang, Discrimination, Incarceration, Law enforcement, Alcoholism)

Dictated 12.9.24 from Dane County Jail, Madison, WI

Dear Mom,

Before I begin, I should warn you that what you’re about to read, you’d constitute “being a smartass.” You may even detect a hint of sarcasm. Credit where credit is due; the world should know you raised me well. There was just so much contrariness stamped in my brain that there was no hope to be had in containing at all. But you also raised me to be respectful of the heroism demonstrated by members of law enforcement, and the unsung sacrifices they make every day in our service.

Mom, an act of law enforcement heroism took place in the Dane County jail today. Lives were saved. Ignorant of this crisis averted, society continues on, thankless as ever. The world continues to revolve on its axis, the universe continues to expand, not knowing that today, a deputy in this very building saved the noble institution, the Dane County Jail, from my bare, naked chest. 

But I shan’t keep you in suspense any longer. Every morning around 7:45am, the jail does a headcount and cell inspection. But at that point, we’ve been up for a while. Staff turn on all the lights at 5:00am (good morning!) and breakfast is served at a brisk 6:00. After that, though, things calm down. There is nothing much to do in between breakfast and the first headcount of the day, so most people go back to sleep or at least lay down for a little bit before the daily activity of the jail picks up. 

In any case, the deputies come through and count you for the first time that day. Then they take a brief tour of your closet-sized cell to suss out if you’ve done anything naughty overnight. Infractions range from keeping a packet of pepper or butter from mealtime (a common occurrence) all the way up to hiding drugs and weapons in your cell (never seen that particular infraction, not sure how common it is).

This particular day, I was asleep as usual, getting a little sleep in before the day started in earnest. (I sleep shirtless, as I do every night, inside or out of the jail.) Rolling gingerly from my bunk (my ribs are not completely healed from their encounter with the brawn of the Madison Police Department), I shuffled to the front of my cell. 

As I said, these cells are the size of a closet, so it’s no wonder the deputies prefer to tour your cell alone. As we all do every morning, I stepped slightly out of my cell to make room for the deputy to enter and look around as usual, the standard beginning of our day. But today was different. This time, the deputy glanced at my bare chest and barked at me to put a shirt on. 

Allow me to clarify: while inside your cell, you are allowed to be in any state of undress that you desire. We are located on the sixth floor of the City County Building, and heat rises; it’s usually plenty warm up here, even in the winter. It’s common courtesy to cover up what society would encourage your gender to cover; however, this is jail and there’s also a toilet in your cell. That being the case, real privacy is as hard to find as an ice cream sandwich. At night, it is common for the women in the cell block to sleep in boxers and a sports bra, and most men sleep in only boxers. Inside your cell, this is all your personal preference.

Outside of your cell, in the day room, the jail uniform is required. Given that these cell inspections happen on a daily basis and most people are dead asleep when staff begin to roust us out of our bunks, having everybody fully dressed is impractical. It’s customary for prisoners here to pop outside in their underwear rather than changing into their jail uniform for the approximately 30 seconds you spend outside of your cell during headcount, so every day, anyone on the cell block will observe myself and the cis women I’m housed with standing outside of our cells (a few inches, no more) for cell inspection in various combinations of undergarments. I have never seen anyone criticized, let alone disciplined, for doing so by any deputy, including Deputy Hamilton, whose happy duty it was to carry out cell inspections this particular morning.

In any case, not being in the mood for an argument, I modestly donned a shirt for Deputy Hamilton, and stepped out into the day room by approximately six inches once again. He did his brief tour of my cell and determined that it was free of the jail no-nos of butter and/or any weapons or anything in between. 

The inspection having come to its conclusion, I shuffled back into my cell past the deputy, once again removing my shirt in order to get back into my bed comfortably. Imagine my surprise when I heard my cell door clang shut behind me. (The door typically stays shut only at night while you’re asleep and during a two-hour period of the afternoon during shift change.) 

I spun around as Deputy Hamilton shouted, “Twenty-four!” and turned to walk away. While this might seem like a cryptic utterance to some readers, I’m sure every inmate in Dane County Jail knows what those words mean. With those three syllables, Deputy Hamilton communicated a great deal while saving valuable time. 

For those of you who haven’t had the benefit of learning jailhouse communication techniques as a guest of the Dane County Sheriff’s Department, these three syllables were the Deputy’s way of efficiently communicating what I imagine he would have, if he had the time, expressed in words similar to the following: 

“Excuse me, my good sir Jezebel, but my moral sensibilities were mortified and deeply offended by the brazen flaunting of your bare chest. As a sad consequence of this slatternly display, I regret to inform you that I am forced to impose a 24-hour lockdown, during which I sincerely hope you reflect on the error of your ways and rediscover a maiden’s modesty.”

What a mouthful – no wonder he shortened it! To elaborate, 24-hour lockdown is a disciplinary status that involves being sequestered in your single small cell for a period of – you guessed it – 24 hours. You eat there, instead of with other people at the dayroom table. You are not permitted to leave for any reason, including to shower. You are confined to your tiny cell, and must rely on other inmates for help with tasks – bringing you food and other stuff you may want that is located outside your own cell. 

For instance, if your tablet needs charging (as it will constantly because none of the batteries hold any kind of charge), another prisoner must take it to the charger and bring it back to you. If you want a deck of cards or a book, another inmate must deliver them. If your fellow prisoners aren’t willing to help you, you do without. Lockdowns are normally handed down to inmates for fighting with each other. It’s done to separate people who are causing problems. 

As I had caused no such disturbance and none of this was relevant, I asked the deputy why I was being locked down. He let me know he had locked me down for “exposing myself.” I looked down, startled, as my boxers did not seem to be sagging, and started laughing. What else could this be but a joke? I haven’t had breasts for five years. 

“Is this about my chest?” I replied. The thought was ludicrous to me, and I couldn’t help but keep laughing. Still thinking there must be some kind of mistake, I told him, “You know I don’t have tits, right?” Without a response, he simply walked away from me. 

Well, I should be angry about this, and maybe I am a little bit because this is so ridiculous – not to mention transphobic. The women I’m imprisoned with in jail routinely come out of their cells in bras and boxers (standard underwear for women), and not a single word has been said to one of them. What’s more, it’s inconsistent. I’ve been bare-chested during cell inspections like this for weeks, and nobody has said a thing. And anyway, there’s no rule prohibiting me from being topless in my own cell, and according to the morals of our society, it’s offensive to no one (I dropped a chunk of change to eradicate my female breasts, and I’m quite satisfied with the result). 

But never mind all that. Apparently, the deputy had determined that my nipples and top surgery scars should be hidden away and safely barricaded me in my cell for the day. Protect and serve, indeed. Given the shocking sight of me exposing myself shamelessly for that 30 seconds I stepped outside my cell, Deputy Hamilton may even deserve a medal of honor, some sort of special commendation for courage and valor.

And since I’m here getting rehabilitated and all fixed up, with a goal of someday being safely reintegrated into society, this prompted me to set some goals for myself for the next 24 hours. After all, confined to a smaller cage inside a larger cage like some sort of criminal Russian doll, it wasn’t like there was much to do. I determined that I would reform myself, so I may someday complete my sentence and leave the facility less of a bare-chested menace. 

Now, it’s been five years, plus or minus, since I had to even worry about finding a bra that fit. Frankly, it wasn’t my favorite task then, and accommodating my bulked-up shoulders in jail bras that fit will surely prove difficult. So, I had a bright idea. Just as I relied on my female colleagues to bring me my meals and schlep my tablet to and fro, perhaps they could help a guy out by judging a lingerie show in the cell block, where I can model the jail-issue sports bras. After all, it would never do to have too much exposed, lest my bosoms become distracting.

Wearing this many bras will require that I frequently request laundry slips, as I try new brassieres to find one that will accommodate my hulking shoulders but conforms to a negative A cup. If I can’t find one, I’ll be forced to submit requests to the jail for some specialty undergarments to hide the goodies, so that the deputies do not find their gaze forced upon my voluptuous and pendulous bosoms. Surely, the jail would be willing to fund such an expense when the alternative is a hostile and sexualized work environment.

Using a tool I learned in my past law enforcement experience, I’ll refer deputies undergoing a transgender ghost-tittie trauma response to employer-funded EAP (Employee Assistance Program) resources. Such programs provide peer support, but I’d also recommend my preferred method of coping with the trauma that comes with law enforcement work (going home and getting so hammered you can’t see the shocking images living rent-free in your head).

And finally, during my lockdown, I’m planning on implementing an initiative I’ll call my Hugs Not Jugs campaign. In hopes of introducing the deputies to the concept of a man housed among women, I’ll be offering free hugs to bridge the gap between law enforcement and prisoners. I know what you’re wondering, and yes, the hugs will be bare-chested. I believe that exposure therapy has been proven effective in many situations. To any deputies reading this, if you’re experiencing trepidation, would it reassure you to know my vestigial, purely-cosmetic nipples retain no sensation whatsoever? What if before I went in for my hug, I said “No homo?” That would probably do the trick.

I’ve found it helpful to deal with this event using sarcasm and humor, but this incident demonstrates a culture problem I’ve witnessed throughout law enforcement. It shows how officers of the law view, treat, and interact with members of minority populations. Things that are problematic and said outright behind the scenes come out in small actions and statements, such as Officer Hamilton classifying me as female. Such occurrences may seem small, but imagine how repeated invalidation could undermine someone in my position. It’s not just this incident; it’s the underlying attitude that is the seed of the problem.

Law enforcement has been struggling to engage in interactions with minorities, whether they be part of a marginalized group by race, gender identity, creed, religion, ethnicity, and/or sexuality. As a former police officer myself, I’ve defended the system in which I worked. But this experience hammered home the importance of engaging with minority populations in an educated, compassionate, and respectful way when you put on that uniform. And to those who’ve been telling me that for years, I’m sorry it took me so long to acknowledge it out loud.

Still me (with love from lockdown),

-Eli