At my first health checkup in February 2022, after serving nearly 13 years in prison, the doctor told me I had lead poisoning. And not a mild case.
I had lead running through my veins at levels that required urgent treatment (83 micrograms per deciliter.) Lead levels higher than 10 micrograms per deciliter can cause constipation, nausea, headaches, nosebleeds and vomiting; I was experiencing all of these symptoms and more.
There is only one way my body could have that much toxic metal in it: the water at Stateville Correctional Center, Illinois’s maximum security men’s prison.
Anyone who has spent time at Stateville, incarcerated or otherwise, knows that the water there is not safe. The Illinois Department of Corrections administration is aware that lead, Legionella and copper have been found during mandated water testing. But the actions taken to ensure that people like me can access enough safe drinking water have failed and continue to fall short.
My body is a testament to this.
Gov. J.B. Pritzker and the Department of Corrections need to ensure that enough safe water is reliably available to incarcerated people. Blood lead tests need to be accessible to anyone who has spent any amount of time at Stateville, either incarcerated or as staff.
This will make it possible to identify and treat others with elevated lead levels, thereby sparing them suffering.
I had suspected there were issues with the water since I arrived at Stateville in 2018, where I was transferred to enroll in Northwestern University’s Prison Education Program.
The water often tasted like onions, smelled like sewage and looked like it came from a mud puddle. It was so dirty that our white T-shirts would be stained brown when we washed them with the tap water in our cells.
Another clue that the water was dangerous is that correctional officers would not use it. I regularly heard them warn new staff about it. Furthermore, I never saw any staff member drink tap water, only bottled water. They even avoided the tap water — the same water that we drank daily — for washing their hands. I saw them use bottled water for that.
These suspicions about the water were confirmed on a fall afternoon in 2020. Stateville prison officials and a group of 15 or so staff members walked into the five-story cell house and announced through a bullhorn: “The water is contaminated.” They told me and the 220 other inmates, “The water will not kill you,” but that we should avoid drinking and using the water because “it could damage our well-being.”
Still, it was nearly impossible to avoid drinking the water. Sure, bottled water was for sale at the commissary. But even those who could afford to pay 70 cents for a small bottle couldn’t buy enough of it to last until the next time they were allowed to visit the commissary.
I had already spent years drinking the water.
By 2020, I was experiencing symptoms that I now know can be caused by lead poisoning. My throat was sore, I had strange abdominal pain, my vision was blurry and I had discolored patches of sensitive skin all over my body. The health care unit told me that these were caused by sleeping under a fan and from eating the food we were served, although they didn’t offer me other food. No one ever mentioned the water.
I had questions for the staff. “What’s going to happen to our health, exactly? How much water is too much water? What’s going to happen to me?” One of the officers said, “Just avoid the water, man,” as they filed out to make the same announcement in the next cell block.
But I needed them to elaborate on this news. Desperate to keep them from leaving, I used two live wires to set a pillowcase on fire and threw it into the gallery where the group had been standing.
This succeeded in bringing back the correctional officers, who sprayed my neighbors and me with Mace. As they pulled us out of our cells, punching, shoving and dragging our now blinded selves to solitary confinement, I kept asking about the water.
“I need y’all to tell me something about this water.”
Since my release in January 2022, my lead levels have gone down, thanks to a series of painful stomach injections to chelate the lead. Although I’m still suffering side effects — migraines so bad that my nose bleeds — I still count myself lucky.
My fellow friends and classmates are still in Stateville, continuing to drink the water. Sure, the Department of Corrections has been providing some clean water, but it isn’t enough; everyone I know on the inside still has to use tap water.
The guys tell me about symptoms that sound a lot like mine. They tell me that the staff won’t test them for lead, even when they beg. They need our help; they need lead tests.
Lead poisoning should not be a part of anyone’s prison sentence.
Broderick Hollins is a Northwestern University student and father of four.
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