The GIPA Diaries

Upon reading Domain 1 of the GIPA report I experienced many emotions. Especially when I read on page 25 “There has never been a dedicated role, office, or division within headquarters with the authority to ensure that department-wide operational policies and budgets take the unique needs of the women’s population into account.” This statement made me laugh, scream in anger, growl in frustration, and shake my head in bewilderment. What exactly was the role of all the superintendents of CCCF? Granted it isn’t a department wide role, but shouldn’t the Superintendent of a woman’s facility be spearheading the unique needs of the women’s population?

My first superintendent was Nancy Howton. Coffee Creek saw her arrive in 2007. She was slight in build but large and in charge. When there was an emergency, she would show up in person to assess the situation. If there was unrest in the inmate population, she would visit them and speak to each person. She regularly visited each unit and every work site in the institution and always took time to address any concerns brought forward. Her support was visible as she was a regular client in the cosmetology school. She was approachable, concerned and acted as soon as possible. She never discounted inmates’ ideas and suggestions and, in many instances, implemented changes based on those ideas and suggestions. She also openly gave credit where it was due and thanked us for our participation. Sadly the ‘rape shack’ event occurred under her leadership. Thus began the trend that perpetuated until the day I left CCCF. Administration was always chasing the tail. All the policies and changes were supposed to deter staff/inmate relationships, but it just made people sneakier. It became very apparent to me that to eliminate the relationships, the system needed a complete overhaul.

When Heidi Steward took over, she had worked alongside Nancy Howton for some time. She too was open to discussions with inmates. She was not so decisive or quick to act and many things slid by the wayside. We did see her visit the units and work areas but usually she was with a tour group and not quite as available for conversations. Heidi also had her hair done in the cosmetology school and never turned away from conversations with the students. The general population asked the cosmetology students to bring up issues they wanted addressed. It was a roundabout way to get needs met but one learns very quickly it is the most common way to get needs addressed in the institution. Education and programs were enhanced greatly under her leadership. She was generally well thought of by the population. Once again PREA lawsuits were filed under her leadership.

For a brief stint in 2015, Kim Brocamp, was the superintendent of CCCF. She was rarely visible. If there was a sighting it was when she was surrounded by visitors or other staff. She seemed scared of us and even physically stepped away if we got close. Interestingly, she came under investigation for sexual misconduct with a fellow staff member.

It was announced in 2015 that Mark Nooth was coming to Coffee Creek. We had all heard good things about him and were looking forward to a leader that was innovative and open to change. But just as soon as his appointment was announced, we heard he wasn’t coming. Finally, we heard that Rob Persson was being appointed. He was a very personable gentleman but not easily accessible. Sadly, not much changed under his leadership. It was pretty much more of the same. He was very similar in style to Ms. Steward. However, he did not use the salon services.

In 2018 Paula Myers became the superintendent of Coffee Creek. She had begun her career in the DOC at 19 years old. She knew a lot of the lifers having worked with them at the former women’s facility in Salem. She was a breath of fresh air. She was personable, approachable, and open to innovative change. She implemented regular town hall meetings and listened to concerns brought forward by the AIC population. She visited the housing units regularly and for the first time, change came, and it came quickly. She listened to everyone’s suggestions and treated all with respect and consideration. Correctional staff didn’t like it at all. They complained bitterly that the AIC’s were being given more consideration than they were. CO’s even asked AICs to pitch their needs to her. She quickly shut that down and told us that the CO’s could bring their own agendas forward.

Then Covid-19 hit, and things ground to a halt. Paula continued with town hall meetings and tried hard to make things tolerable as more and more covid restrictions were being put into place.

One day, at a town hall meeting, she announced she was retiring. We all groaned!! Just when we finally had leadership that was making a difference we were losing again. Her supporters were Assistant Superintendents Doug Sheppard and Polly Roland. We pleaded with them to apply for the Superintendent’s position. They had both supported and implemented the changes that she called for. Imagine our dismay when we learned that Doug Shephard was leaving to be the Superintendent at Columbia River and Columbia River’s Superintendent was coming to Coffee Creek. We were told that Nicole Brown was fabulous, she didn’t have a corrections background but rather her background was education. She was reported as being innovative and would support and continue the changes that Paula Myers had started. That was far from the truth.

She quickly disappeared from the town hall meetings. Not long after that, town hall meetings disappeared too. While Covid restrictions continued at least with Paula Myers we felt she was in it with us as she visited often and always tried to be positive and lead by example. Nicole Brown was absent. If we did happen to see her, she would simply placate us with empty words that had no follow through. Staff gossiped that she was ‘drowning’ trying to run 3 institutions. She had come from a 600-bed minimum facility to a 1,684-bed facility. CCCF has a minimum facility, a medium facility and a men’s intake center. When fully staffed, 450 officers work at CCCF, not to mention all the ancillary staff required to run drug and alcohol rehab, psychiatric treatment, medical treatments, and the infirmary.

Currently the facility roof is falling in, the plumbing and HVAC are failing, staffing is at an all time low and morale is horrible.

Across six leaders I watched the pendulum swing from hands‑on to hands‑off, from decisive to disappearing. Programs improve, scandals erupt, policies tighten, and yet the core truth of the GIPA line holds: no one at the top is mandated to see us. Until that seat exists—someone empowered and accountable—superintendents will keep firefighting symptoms instead of redesigning the house.

Reading Domain 2 of the GIPA report was like watching someone describe my house while standing in my front yard — they can see the roof and windows, but they do not know how the walls feel from the inside. The report talks about “deeply committed partners” and “the need for better coordination,” but living through the reality of “external support” at Coffee Creek felt more like a teeter-totter — up when a program found its footing, down when budgets or leadership moods shifted.

In prison, the words “community partner” often floated around like a magic spell — as if saying them meant doors would open, programs would appear, and help would arrive. Sometimes it did. The Family Preservation Project, The Pathfinder Network, Oregon Justice Resource center and a handful of other groups actually showed up. They knew our names, remembered our kids’ birthdays, and treated us like we were more than our DOC number. But those programs always seemed to live in a constant state of almost being cut. One budget cycle, a funding “reallocation” and they were gone — or at least shrunk down to a shadow of what they had been. The women left behind always got the same vague explanation: funding priorities changed. Which is DOC-speak for we found a shinier object to throw money at.

I remember when FPP disappeared. The quiet in the visiting room was different after that — less laughter, more empty tables. For mothers, the visits weren’t just a social moment; they were the lifeline that kept them tethered to a reason for staying alive and staying out when they got out. The DOC did not see it that way. In their math, FPP was “expensive” and “unproven.” Our math said it was priceless, but apparently, we flunked budget class. It was the only program that stopped the clock from running out on motherhood.

What the GIPA does not fully capture is how fragile those partnerships were inside the fence. They depend on who is sitting in leadership chairs that month and whether those leaders believe outside groups are a help or a threat. I have seen programs vanish because a superintendent did not “like” the director, or because someone at HQ decided the DOC could “do it cheaper” in-house. Spoiler: they never did it better. When you replace community expertise with DOC staff running a “class” they do not believe in, the women know. We stop showing up — because we have learned the difference between being truly supported and being babysat.

And then there was the way DOC employees sometimes treated community partners. I watched volunteers and program staff arrive cheerful and ready to work, only to be met with eye rolls, clipped responses, or made-up rules that conveniently “didn’t exist last week.” Sometimes they were told they could not bring in basic materials they had been using for years. Other times they were left standing at the gate for so long they missed most of their scheduled session. The message was clear: You are here on our terms, and we can make it as difficult as we want. Over time, you could see the lights go out in some of them. Fewer smiles. Shorter conversations. Eventually, a few just stopped coming back.

I experienced my own version of this gatekeeping when I was called in by Internal Affairs over an “investigation” into a staff member. The shocking allegation? I had donated a Blu-ray player to the chapel. A Captain sat in on my interrogation while the investigator asked why I would do such a thing. I looked at him like he had just asked me why people breathe. “I’m not sure how long you’ve worked for the Department of Corrections,” I said, “but there is never enough money in the budget for programs and equipment. If I want to see a program survive or get better, it is up to me to raise the funds. I live here — I want this place to be as good as it can be during my time here. In fact, I have had three Blu-ray players donated to different programs in the institution because DOC won’t even let them share equipment.” The Captain started giggling, and the investigator wrapped it up right there. I walked out furious — not just because they had tried to implicate an incredible chaplain in wrongdoing, but because they thought I’d help them do it. Apparently, in DOC math, a donated Blu-ray player is more suspicious than moldy showers, leaking roofs, and empty classrooms.

The GIPA points out the resource inequities between Coffee Creek and the men’s facilities. They are not exaggerating. I have been in rooms meant to pass as classrooms with no supplies, and a single broken TV, while men’s facilities had music rooms, multiple vocational tracks, clubs, and recreation spaces that didn’t double as storage closets. It is a different kind of hunger — wanting your kids to feel proud to visit you and knowing the institution can’t be bothered to make that happen.

External support in prison is also about the bridge to the outside — the moment you leave the gate. For most of us, that “bridge” was a pamphlet, a phone number that went to voicemail, and a warning to “check in with parole.” No warm handoffs, no standing appointment with a counselor or housing coordinator, no groceries in the fridge that first night. If you didn’t already have someone on the outside ready to catch you, you fell. And when you fell, you came back.

Over the years, we became well-acquainted with the volunteers who came inside. They were more than faces at the front of a classroom — they were part of our lives. They knew our families’ names, our stories, our children. Through the churches or organizations, they represented, they quietly supported our families with food, clothing, or even a place to stay if relatives traveled from out of town. Sometimes, as release drew near, they helped arrange housing. In every way, they embodied what “external support” was supposed to mean: a bridge between life inside and life outside, built on trust and relationship.

And yet, DOC rules cut that bridge the moment we stepped out the gate. Volunteers who had invested years into our lives were forbidden from having any contact with us upon release. It makes no sense — the very people who had supported us faithfully were barred from continuing the connection when it mattered most. For me, this meant that when I came home with no family support, the strongest form of external support I had known was suddenly off-limits. What followed were nights of bone-crushing loneliness. Yes, there were organizations willing to help, but no one knew me from Adam. I had one long-time friend from inside and two new friends I met upon release, but they did not yet know me deeply. The absence of those volunteers — people who had already walked beside me — made all the difference between feeling grounded and feeling utterly alone.

The irony? The people who worked hardest to prepare us for life outside were rarely DOC staff. They were volunteers, mentors, and advocates — people with the least power inside but the biggest impact outside. Yet the system treated them like optional extras, not essential partners.

The GIPA is right that investing in a robust network of community-based partners is the only way to truly support women. But it is more than money. It is trust. It is valuing expertise that comes from lived experience. And it is giving those partners a seat at the table where decisions are made, not just a visitor’s badge and a clipboard. Until women are allowed to carry those trusted relationships across the gate — to lean on the very people who have walked beside them — external support will remain fragile and incomplete, another pretty phrase in a report instead of something we can truly hold in our hands.

I arrived at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility on September 10, 2008, just as Oregon was trading warm autumn afternoons for the wet gray of winter. By October the rain fell in steady sheets, as relentless as the system that now claimed my days.

I knew prison would not be pleasant, yet the Department of Corrections’ motto— “You are there as the punishment, not to be punished”—still rang in my ears every time the institution itself hurt us. CCCF’s medium security wing had opened only six years earlier, in April 2002, but staff already joked that every contract had gone to the lowest bidder. The punchline became our daily reality.

All the outlets had the standard 2 plug-ins but could only support one electronic item at a time. Plugging in two items would blow the outlet. Flames would shoot out and render it unusable. Even in the cells one could not use a blow-dryer and have a curling iron heating up at the same time. It would either trip the ground fault circuit interrupter or flames would shoot out. Thankfully, 2 TVs could be plugged into the same outlet with only occasional issues.

During the rainy season, it wasn’t uncommon to see 5-gallon paint buckets and plastic trash cans throughout the building to catch drips from the leaky roof. When it poured the rain would come in under the yard doors and piles of old towels would be thrown down to stop the water coming in. The worst part was the shower and washing machines became unusable. Water would come up the drains and washing machines would drain into the dayroom and flood the first 3 cells.

Sadly, the backed-up drains didn’t only occur when it rained. At least once a month, and sometime more often, when the washing machines drain, the drains would back up, bubbling the worst smelling water into the dayroom and showers and again flood into the first 3 cells.

One thing I’d like to point out is when this is a regular occurrence, as so many things that went wrong were, one becomes used to the status quo. That goes for AIC’s and staff alike.

Each housing unit has multiple skylights. Leakage around them is normal. Even in the chapel the skylights leak. In 2018 a team of AIC artists, including myself, worked on murals to bring color to the chapel. One morning we arrived to discover the leaky skylight had let water in creating a gallon sized bubble of water under the paint. We were very thankful it hadn't burst and drained it before having to repaint.

Behind each tier lies a narrow alley—the chase—where plumbers reach the backs of sink/toilet units. Water and waste slosh onto the chase floor, seeping through porous concrete and pooling beneath bunks. We kept towels pressed against baseboards to slow the seepage.

Per an AIC plumber, “Sometimes the officers will not report the clogged toilet for days, and the person in the cell is living with their feces in their face – but worse, when I have to unclog the toilet, the waste comes pouring out the back where I am – and on the top tier, all there is, is a set of steel beams with a steel mesh walkway. It’s open to the bottom floor. So, all that waste comes splashing down if you’re not careful and man, does it stink! We wash the floors back there in the ‘chase’ (the narrow alleyway between the units where all the toilet/sinks back up to) maybe once a month, if they’re lucky. The other bad part is not all the floors are sealed – so if you happen to have a cell like that, waste can creep in around the base of your sink or by your bed.”

As a dog handler I had to train my puppies not to lick the sewage that seeped through the wall. It was so gross!

The summer heat is a major issue. The concrete heats up and then holds onto the heat never cooling during the night and only gets hotter each day. The temperature easily hits above 90 degrees and higher. It is dangerous in so many ways. The dog handler rooms are especially hot with the extra body heat of the dogs. We would put down wet towels for them to lay on and on days when the temperature was over 100 degrees, we would put them in the kennels in the classroom as it was slightly cooler. Some women flip their mattresses up and lay directly on the metal bunk, at least until the CO yells at them that it is against the rules. I’m pretty sure that there is no rule on that, but we comply.

Ice was rationed. The machines couldn’t keep up, so kitchen workers wheeled over milk crates of it twice a day, never enough. Combine that stifling heat with the ever-present stench of sewage, and the air itself became oppressive. No shampoo, lotion, or deodorant could compete with it.

When one goes through the initial paperwork on intake, we are informed that if there is damage to a cell in any way and we have not reported it to the CO when we move in, then on exit, we will be charged for the repairs. I’ve never heard of anyone being charged for cell damage, but the damage is real. In 2018 when there was work being done in the chase, 2 large chunks of concrete fell out of our wall and fell on the floor. My roommate and I immediately reported it to the CO as we were worried that someone would think we were attempting to escape. The CO came and looked at it. He then called the Operations Captain, who at the time was Capt. Yanez. He came and looked at it, took a few photos and said someone would come and fix it. No one ever did and to this day it remains unrepaired.

Dampness was a constant problem due to the porousness of concrete. This caused black mold to grow everywhere. The kitchen had to tear out a wall in the dishwashing room due to black mold growing within the wall. They had failed an OSHA inspection. Sadly no one ever checked the shower stalls. Black mold grew in the grout between the tiles. Bleach would have taken care of the problem, but we were not allowed to use any cleaning fluids that were deemed dangerous. Many women had compromised respiratory systems, yet no one thought black mold could be compounding their issues.

The bunkbeds are a dangerous problem. And present many areas for improvement. The mattresses are 3-inch-thick foam covered in nylon or plastic. The bunks are metal, and the mattresses slide off them easily. There are no raised edges, bumpers, or rails to keep the mattresses in place.

A woman who lived 1 bunk over from me, fell off in her sleep and broke her back. Many women suffer from seizure disorders and have fallen from the top bunks. I, myself, fell off the top bunk but was miraculously unhurt. Sadly, if women were fighting, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for one to push the other off the bunk. This is a huge safety concern.

The ladders to the top bunk were also an issue. There were no non-skid strips on the rungs. So many of us fell down the ladders. The rungs are painted and with socks on they are extremely slippery. When I fell down the ladder, my roommate had to help unhook my legs from the rungs. I was bruised for weeks. During Paula Myers term, we finally got non-skid strips but only in the incentive unit. The excuse for not installing them institution wide was, “they will just be peeled off.”

During the winter of 2009, there was a snowstorm and freezing rain. The pipes froze and the boilers broke. Without heating the building, the temperatures dropped. Physical plant went around the building taking the temperature daily. In A section of K Unit, where I lived, the temperature was 17°. We all wore long johns, T-shirts, Sweatshirts, Jeans, coats, beanies, and gloves to bed. It was the only way to survive the numbing cold. The toilets wouldn’t flush and were soon full to overflowing. Then the institution brought in porta-potties and set them up on the back dock of the building. Twenty-four hours a day we would line up for potty runs. The CO on graveyard was so rude, making jokes about women’s bladder, urine and feces. It was the most demeaning experience. Many women used sanitary napkins to pee on rather than deal with the nastiness of the CO’s and the freezing cold. Some of the dog handlers used the puppy potty bags for the same reasons. We had no hot water during this time either. No one bathed. It was the coldest I’ve ever been. It was so cold I ached, and it was hard to sleep. We never lost power and to this day I’m baffled as to why no space heaters were brought in.

When things like this occurred, it just let us know how far we had fallen. Animals were treated better than we were. Once, when the city warned everyone about the algae bloom, and directed everyone to boil water, truckloads of water was brought in for staff. Even the dogs in training were brought bottled water. All AICs were directed to keep drinking the tap water.

Something not everyone is aware of is the lack of darkness in prison. Even at night the lights are always on. When I arrived at CCCF, the education dept ran a small store called the Con-Mart. They sold eye masks, and I was fortunate to purchase one before they closed permanently the same year. For those not so fortunate, they were forced to sleep with T-shirts or beanie caps pulled over their eyes. The especially unkind COs will not allow this, as it is a misuse of items. Currently OCE makes and sells eye masks but, as with everything else, that is subject to change.

Why are lights an issue? There are multiple studies available that expose the detrimental effects on brain function to constant light exposure. It is effectively used as a torture device. We even had a puppy that was afraid of the dark, having been raised in constant light. Sadly, only the incentive housing unit was selected to have magenta filters placed over the security lights. Just the softening from the bright LED lights light allowed me to sleep better. During my stay at CCCF I averaged about 4-5 hours of sleep at night. Since leaving CCCF, I have continued to struggle with adequate sleep.

All the dayrooms have hexagonal metal tables with attached stools bolted to the ground. The stools are round, about the size of a large stock pot. I am not a large person, yet I quickly realized how uncomfortable the stools were to sit on for any extended period. Many of us would fold up a towel or sweatshirt to sit on for a little padding. Of course, some COs wouldn’t allow this as it was a misuse of the items. The contraband rule was designed to keep people from making weapons, but logic is not allowed in prison either.

Eventually I developed large bruises and chafing on each buttock. Most women complained of the same issues. Fortunately, at the time, I had a sympathetic medical provider who prescribed a donut cushion for my ‘hemorrhoids.’ I can only imagine what it was like for the larger women. It was one of the reasons most people stayed in their cells. In our cells we could sit on our pillow at the desk or sit on our bunks. Since release, It has taken 6 months for the bruising and chafing to resolve.

In my 17.5 years, I was blessed to have 3 new mattresses. Sadly, they break down very quickly. Many of the mattresses are cracked and get black mold in them. To keep them dry, the institution began covering them in thick plastic. I won’t even address how uncomfortable that is. During the Covid lockdowns, I left the institution for a medical procedure. Upon returning I was moved to the quarantine unit. There I was single celled for 14 days. Each night I would take the top bunk mattress down and slide it under my mattress. For 14 wonderful days, I awoke each morning pain free! It was the best I had felt in years!!! Strange how something as small as a thicker mattress helped my pain, which in turn affected my mood and demeanor. So many health issues and those seeking pain relief could probably be ‘cured’ with a thicker mattress. Medical does give permission for double mattresses or extra pillows but only in the direst of circumstances.

Every flaming outlet, every moldy wall, every ruined night of sleep—all of it traced back to the same source: the need to save money. To cut corners. To do it cheap. The posters on the walls told us we weren’t here to be punished. But the building told a different story.

And it never stopped telling it. Infrastructure is supposed to safeguard life, but here it was rationed along a hierarchy of worth. Even the dogs received more consideration than the women the prison claimed it was only housing, not punishing.