If the beauty of the mountains that surrounded the compound we lived in or the chipmunks that ate Jolly Ranchers out of our hands had seduced me into believing I was not in prison, standing count would shake me back. To me, standing count was very important. was the exact time of standing count - a daily event at federal prisons nationwide that “Orange” seems to have glossed over. I needed to prepare myself to be strong when I watched the show so that I didn’t fall into the weird prison warp I’d fought with like a sibling when I was locked up … the one that would headlock me into submission. I’d begin watching “Orange” at 4 p.m., enough time for a hot yoga class, errands and a walk on the beach. I started my countdown to binge on “Orange” like I counted the days to my release back in prison. Cowardly, all that came out was, “Why do you like watching women in prison?” I wanted to shout, “I’ve been in prison!” and claim it like a trophy or a prize. I needed to support Chapman and the other inmates too! Prison was my new sorority. Yet how could I not watch it? I needed to dive into the world of Litchfield prison so that I’d never forget the locked-up women I’d left behind.
I wanted to tell him I was trying to psych myself up to watch “Orange” by bribing myself with pepperoni pizza, that I’d been in prison too, and the thought of putting myself through an entire second season sort of made my skin crawl. “I watched the first six episodes last night,” the hipster with dreds at the register casually announced. On a Saturday morning in early June, I rushed to Best Buy to purchase an adapter and HDMI cable so that I could stream the show directly to my TV. The release of the show's sophomore season fills me with anticipation and dread. “Who’s that dirty white-girl bitch?” I felt ashamed. A black woman sneered as I left the bathroom. I surrendered to prison an educated white girl, the minority prison group to which I was condemned. Like Alice down the rabbit hole, my world had distorted and warped. My only solace was an empty creamer bottle an inmate gave me to drink water. The first night, with no belongings besides a black pen and a bar of Lucy soap, I - inmate 87836-198 - felt barren. When I was told I’d be going to a camp, the lowest-security prison, the word sprouted warm Midwestern memories of 4-H and Girl Scouts - hot summer nights, mosquitoes and youthful sexual stirrings - but my surrender to the Federal Prison Camp, called Alderson, was anything but familiar. Before that, I’d never been in trouble with the law aside from an occasional parking ticket.
Like Chapman, I was busted for trafficking drugs (marijuana, in my case). I was as blond and naive as Piper Chapman, the WASPy, Smith-grad heroine of “Orange Is the New Black,” when I surrendered to federal prison in 2006.