ABSTRACT
The prison returns my letters, the word “CONTRABAND” emblazoned across the envelope. So far, this has happened three times. The offending contents: writing tablets naively sent in a cardboard box; a comic book with an overlooked cartoon about safe-cracking; a post-office issued packet of fifty one-cent stamps that exceeds the quantity limit of forty full-postage stamps. The charge feels overbearing when the only thing I’ve attempted to smuggle in are frustratingly small tokens of support, simple reminders of basic human interaction. Consequently, this policing feels more like a brutal assault on emotional outreach than a truly valid concern with safety and security.
