Clothing at Club Fed
The morning of my self surrender to the Bureau of Prisons in May of 2021, I woke up in a queen sized hotel bed with a burnt orange comforter, a mountain of cloud soft pillows and ample thread count sheets. I changed into a pair of colored briefs, comfortable jeans, and a teal v-neck. As I gazed in the bathroom mirror, I remembered thinking, “This is the last I'll be wearing denim for five years.” That my whole day was one of liminality of endings, of transitions, of new realities. At the end of it, I lie down on a thin mat on the top of an aged metallic bunk, covered myself with a fraying blanket, and rested my head on a Taco Bell burrito thick pillow. Before climbing into bed, I had slipped out of a pair of oversized khakis, draping them over the plastic chair at the base of the bunk. My colorful v-neck and briefs had been swapped with loose, ill fitting off white boxers and a dune colored T-shirt with the hole in the armpit. This wardrobe makeov...