Jaime Lowe - Breathing Fire: Female Inmate Firefighters on the Front Lines of Californias Wildfires

Shawna Lynn Jones heard the siren at 3:00 a.m., but refused to get out of bed. What she heard sounded like the school bells that pulsed to announce earthquakes. She could sleep through those. Those bells were drills, those drills were drop-and-covers. And everyone in California knew, if the big one hit, theres no way an Antelope Valley school desk would save you.

Shawna, lets go. Weve got to go out with another fire, Carla said, shaking her.

Shawna refused to get out of bed.

Get up, Shawna.

Shawna groaned.

Is it for reals this time? she asked.

Carla nodded. Yeah, get up. Come on. Baileys gonna be pissed.

Shawna got up, and ran, groggy, to the buggy. Her shirt was stamped, in twelve-inch letters, CDCRCalifornia Department of Corrections and Rehabilitationso that under- neath it all, under her NOMEX protective gear, shed never be mistaken for a free world firefighter. At the buggy, Carla pointed at Shawnas feet.

Where are your boots? Carlas eyes widened. Shawna was shoeless. She had raced out in a dream state. Was she imagining the siren? Was she actually even running to the buggy? Was she in jail? Was she a firefighter? Was she back home in Lancaster? Was she at the biker bar her mom managed in Antelope Valley? Was she skateboarding? Was she jumping into Shaver Lake on a hot day? She didnt know what the fuck was going on. She groaned and asked again, Is this a for reals fire?

They had to treat every alarm as real. They had to rush to the buggy every time. It was their job. It was why they got paid the prison salaries of $2.56 a day and $1 an hour when they were out on the line, fighting fire. Shawna had barely seen flames before, but she was itching to. She kept saying she wanted to fight an out-of-countywhen crews would travel across county lines and assist statewide efforts, sleeping outside for up to two weeks at a time, sometimes longer.

Shawna held her black, dirt-caked boots in her hands but hadnt yet pulled them on and laced them up. They looked just like the kind of shoes correctional officers favor: Whites Smokejumpers. They were heavy black leather with winged wooden heels. New girls always complained about the boots and the blisters that came with them.

It was dark. Red and white lights flashed.

She made the crew late; the foreman, Don Bailey, was waiting. Shawna made the crew late a lot. She often came out of the barracks sloppy, shirt untucked, shoes untied, disheveled in a way that would often warrant punishment. The crew would get harder work the next day. But Shawna and Bailey had their own rapport. He wasnt as strict with her; everyone could tell he liked her. And anyway, it was his last day with crew 13-3. After this hed be promoted to captain and transferred, and theyd have a new foreman. He told Shawna to hurry up.

It had been the third, fourth, maybe fifth alarm of their shift. Around 10:00 p.m., when inmates had to be on their bunks for final count, the crew had assumed it just wasnt their night to catch a fire. They toasted pizza pockets, got ready for bed, but stayed dressed in their oranges, just in case they caught a call. They went to bed in the open concrete-floored barracks. Bunk after bunk after bunk. They slept in the same order they walked as a crew. First, the sawyer, the woman in charge of handling the chain saw and cutting brush. Then, her bucker, the person who cleaned up whatever she slashed down. A second sawyer, and her buckerthat was Carla and Shawna. Then, the rest of the crewthe women in charge of tools, the girls who scraped the earth with McLeods and cut line with Pulaskis. And last in line, the dragspoon, the person who looked out for safety issues.

They lay down, thinking the calls had stopped. With only an eighth of their twenty-four-hour shift remaining, it was a good gamble. Some went to sleep hard; something deep. Others floated on the edge of consciousness, knowing another alarm might sound. Thing about fire camp, you were always tired. Always needing to catch up on sleep. And when you were on call, sleep was half a notion. Crew 13-3 had to be ready to get to the buggy in two minutes or less. So, they tucked into their cots, boots unlaced next to the cubbies. All day and into the evening, they laced their boots, raced to the fire buggy, and pulled on their turnouts, only to turn around after being told the fire call was canceled. Sometimes Bailey would pull the alarm just to test their readiness. Theyd never caught an out-of-county with Bailey. Many of the fourteen women in the crew hadnt seen fire at all.

Come on, Shawna, get on the buggy. I think we caught one.

Carla was not used to being responsible for other people, but Shawna was her bucker, which meant they were a team. If Carla had to cut brush on a cliff, it was Shawna who held her by the belt, dangling Carlas body closer to the dried-out grasses that blanketed the wild mountains of Southern California. For Carla, it had started in fourth or fifth grade with the feeling of powerlessness, the feeling that she couldnt trust the adults, or the kids, around her. She got picked on. Pushed around, bullied. She felt her size, small. It was easy to mistake small for weakness. Once she got to middle school, kids would wage all-out war on the asphalt. Theyd put gum in Carlas hair. Theyd pull her hair, scratch her face, punch her in the gut, the neck, the cheek, whatever was exposed. Shed fight back, straddle whoever was coming at her, one-two-one, fists clenched, leaving nail marks in her palms, not letting up until someone pulled her off or the school cops came to break it up. Sometimes she ran, sometimes she got caught.

When she was caught, police would drive her to the San Fernando courthouse where her mom was a clerk for a judge. Growing up, Carla had seen all the criminals lined up in cuffs and judges donning their robes. She knew some judges by name. When people in the courthouse saw her, they asked, Carla, what are you doing here?

She went through those metal detectors as a kid, on Take Your Daughter to Work days. Her mom never thought shed have to teach her daughter to try to avoid the lock-up side of the courthouse. It just seemed obvious. Dont end up like them. You are better than that. I am better than that. The more Carla got in trouble, the harsher her mom punished her. You wont go out. You wont eat. You wont live with me anymore. Go to your grandmothers. Youre an embarrassment, shed tell Carla.

By high school, Carla had learned that the best defense was a good offense. She went to three different schools, got kicked out of each for fighting. She got into fights about dumb things, gossip or rumors. If someone started shit or lied about her or demeaned her, she would not back down. When one girl told Carla she couldnt wear the same Nikes, Carla thought,