Racism is real.

Supposedly in this culture my being a white male gives me some privilege.  I am white, six feet tall, with an athletic build.  Statistically those three things make me more likely to succeed.  Obviously though I had been thrown under the bus and found myself absolutely surrounded by inner city blacks who really didn't like white people because of their situation.  Through reading I had some knowledge of their situation.  I was watching it go down with my own eyes, at least a certain part of it anyways.  I didn't have any experience of city life yet, but in prison it was happening to me too.  I might not have been black, but the stigma of being a felon was just as limiting on my future.  I’m not saying they are equal things, being black and being a felon, but it lets one know what it feels like first hand to have certain things made unavailable simply because of a label.  If you don't believe me just check the committed a felony box on a job application and go looking for a job. 

Cats name was Rat.  I never figured out why they called him that.  He was like 5'4'' maybe, but built.  He still had the wide shoulders, and as is typical of black people he had the muscular build and six pack.  If you randomly selected one hundred blacks, and one hundred whites in prison the physical difference in appearance is startling, and I mean that by not taking skin color into consideration.  There will be like eighty black guys with a six pack, and maybe ten white guys with one if you are lucky.  What is crazy is that in terms of lifestyle they do absolutely nothing different.  There were so many blacks with six packs who never ever did a damn thing.  It makes them appear much more intimidating to a pudgy looking white guy.  Rat though lifted weights.  He was athletic and could back it up.  It's crazy how good at basketball some of those small guys can be.  Even though he was short he still carried himself, and didn't have a small man's complex about it.    The dude was intelligent and we had conversations a few times.  I didn't consider him a bad guy. 

This other dudes name is Sergeant.  He hasn't been in for very long yet.  He's in Six House.  He’s still learning.  His head is shaved.  He's one of those white boys on upper hill that finds it easy to be openly racist.  He doesn't know the rules on lower hill it seems.  He hasn't learned his lesson yet.  I don't like racist people so he and I didn't ever talk much.  I don't associate with racist people.  I have no respect for them.  It’s just not that difficult to wrap one’s mind around. 

Rat was one of those rare gangsters that had a job in maintenance.  Like I said, he was smart and new how to play the game.  He didn't always like being in the ghetto either, and a maintenance job was a way out temporarily.  A job on a maintenance crew came with several perks.  Just because he was in a gang didn't mean he liked constant noise.  No intelligent person would like the circus.  There weren't any guards at the maintenance building usually.  Part of that job was having some freedom.  The civilians were called maintenance supervisors.  There were four or five crews, and each had a supervisor.  Some jobs were more serious than others like plumbing and electrical.  Sometimes we would be sitting around the trucks waiting or whatever and there wouldn't be anyone around except inmates.  It's just me, Rat, and Sergeant at the back of a truck.

Rat is sitting next to me on the tail gate.  Small talk.  He's gangster talking, which Sergeant isn't quite familiar with yet.  He didn't understand everything being said.  He's kind of sneering that Rat is talking that way.  It quickly escalates.  Rat is on edge.  Rat asked him point blank why he shaves his head.  Dude is trying to act hard at this point because a 5'4" gangster who is smarter than he is; is calling him out.  Dude says right back, "Because I don't like black people."  Rat jumps off the tail gate and says, "What you mean to say is, you don't like niggers."  Rat started approaching him. Sergeant looks over at me as this happens like I was going to help him.  He even made it obvious as he backed away from Rat, looking at me like I should help him. 

I didn't do shit.  Wasn't going to either.  I was hoping Rat would beat his ass.  His parole board hearing was coming up though.  He couldn’t afford to clown on this white boy.  Sergeant had it coming though.  Say stupid shit and you got it coming.  I wouldn't have let Rat get jumped either had Sergeant had a bunch of white boys around.  Being on lower hill I knew exactly what it was like to be the only person with a certain color of skin.  That feeling is a real thing.

When I was in 1 House there was a dude named Epps who hated white people.  He did not hide that fact either.  He was an officer in the Nation of Islam church.  Always running his mouth.  Always adding to the cacophony.  He was bitter like me, but too wrapped up in his own shit to see it.  It's called the shadow effect.  It's a well-documented psychological phenomenon.  It's when the thing you dislike about someone else is true about you and you just can't see it.  Don’t want to see it.  He was racist and didn't want to realize it on an emotional level.  The truth to him was painful.  That is how it was with most of them.  They don't realize it is each of us alone that decides who we are.  Instead of taking personal responsibility for his own situation in life he blamed others.  I understood his plight, but he happened to be quite racist about it. 

I can only take so much.  I had already made it clear to him that if I could not say overtly racist shit neither could he.  No one calls me a honkey, or cracker, or any of that.  He made sure he used those words just never directly at me.  He'd say it when coming around a corner, or as I was coming in the bay.  He liked to do it just to push my buttons.  He liked to call me a Europe.  A European.  Since he was given the African label, I was given European.  He had it right too.  The European culture that American culture came from was disgustingly racist.  Sexist too.  Just straight up bigoted.  Still is.  Epps was acting like it was me that made those decisions.  These guys were just like me; really smart in some ways and totally ignorant in others.  It was a genius title, but I wasn't the white man holding him back.  He had me confused with some other white people. 

We were standing in line to be counted, and he's running his mouth looking right at me talking about Europeans.  He was pissed off about how he was being treated at his job. You see the problem with this cat was that he was ranked in the most racist church in prison.  Merely out of principle, they will all take his side over some racist shit.  I'd seen the call go down before when I was in that bay with Miniman.  Wouldn't have mattered what the reason, it would have made it quite unsafe being anywhere after picking a fight with this dude.  It's not only that there are other guys in that church, but that those other guys are also all in various gangs.  It goes from messing with one guy to potentially hundreds instantly.  He knew that fact too.  Racist as he was he was not an idiot.  He was doing the same shit as me to get out.  He played the power game too.  He had a job in admin too, and knew how to talk white when he needed to. 

My eyes flared.  I was so sick of this dude running his mouth.  The whole bay is quite for count.  I am looking right at him like I was daring him to take a step forward. I say, "I'm not a fucking European.  I'm a fucking redneck. I was born in Missouri."  Silence for a couple seconds, then laughter.  Some other gangsters snickered at him.  Even other blacks got tired of listening to his shit.  I would have tried to beat the racism out of him had he moved towards me.  It's easy to run your mouth when you have hundreds of cats behind you.  I was so pissed I would have risked it.  I would have risked my safety for a few months for the chance to stomp that guy’s ass.  I did the next best thing though, and made him look stupid.  Checked him in front of everyone. 

It doesn't take much looking into the matter to realize those blacks had legitimate reason to be pissed off in life.  They were thrown under the bus, and kept ignorant just like me.  As racist as those church organizations were they did make those guys more aware of their situation in life.  The racial tension was always high.  It was always in my face.  As if I had any more to do with being born white than they had in being born black.  I didn't want to be in there either. 

The worst ever was when I was on work release.  You absolutely cannot fight, or get any violations for that matter while on work release.  They won't let you out if you do.  The stupid prison staff let a racist movie air over the cable.  Mississippi burning or something like that.  Idiots.  A well respected white boy got worked over in 5 House because of it.  There weren’t enough whites in those bays for that kind of movie to be watched simultaneously by hundreds of blacks.  I found out after the fact that the white boy had been told if he swung first; it would be all in.  Being in work release I was no longer in the know. 

The chow hall was two big open rooms with a divide wall in the middle.  Half of the wall was a counter with drinks and condiments.  There was always milk and some kind of crazy kool aid drink that stained the shit out of the plastic cups. I never drank that nasty stuff.  If it did that to the cup what was it doing to my insides?  The other half of the divider was the dishwasher's station.  The guards station was at the open end, and everyone had to go by it to get out.  At the far ends were single entry doors, and then in the middle were double doors that everyone left through.  The guards always acted like everyone was passing shit around during chow.  It wasn't really a station, but an open area where the two rooms connected.  The guards always set up shop at the corner tables.  The lines formed along the outer wall, so from the guard station the whole room can be seen clearly.  The tables are all bolted down including the seats; four seats to a table.  They controlled the length of the lines via their walky talkies.  There was some politics in which houses go when, and to which side of the chow hall which houses go to avoid conflicts.  The guards were always clueless though. 

I was coming back from working in a town called Blackwater.  I was at the end of the line about fifteen feet from the corner.  There were probably thirty or forty inmates in front of me.  The row of table’s right next to the line, right by the narrow slotted window where the trays appear, were filled with white boys. I could feel the tension in the room.  I knew some racist shit had gone down but I didn’t know exactly what.  I found out after the fact that all the cats in line standing along the wall were the blacks from that bay in 5 House.  They were trapped between the brick wall and a row of about twenty white boys.  The dude they rolled stood up and just drilled a cat right in the face.  Before I could blink the whites were all on their feet throwing down on those gangsters.  Those cats didn't know what the fuck was going on.  Guards came running in and started spraying mace on the cats who wouldn't stop fighting.  One guard took a shot to the face.  Once a guy is maced he is no longer responsible for landed punches.  Everyone knows this.  Rookie guard spraying mace like that with so many fighting was a dumb thing to do.  When the guards came in most everyone was burning out.  Gangsters were jumping over the counter into the kitchen area trying to get away.  Some white boys managed to escape because the guards let them.  The guards knew what was up. 

I felt like such a bitch though.  I had to just stand there.  Cats who had had my back were sticking up for one another, and I wasn't able to return the favor.  Had I gotten that four or five year out date that would have been me in there throwing down.  I could have let it all go if even for only for a few moments.  I would have gotten my opportunity to go to the hole for a while too.  Instead I had to stand there and hope they didn't notice me.  I was ashamed.  I had to get out though.  I put my head down.  I didn’t really eat.  The fumes from the mace were still in the air.  The food was even worse to me knowing I would be out soon.  I didn’t care about my pride that time; I was going to get out. 

The scam.

The man who sentenced me to ten years in prison knew almost nothing about me at all.  He had his own life.  I was one case in thousands.  His impact on my life was quite detrimental.  My impact on his was a few hundred bucks for his time.  In total I do not think I spent more than fifteen minutes in his presence.  He barely talked to me at all.  The prosecutor did not ever talk to me.  They had no clue who I was at all.

That fact makes it arbitrary.  Hopeless.  A number.  A statistic.  A paycheck.  That makes them bigots.  This part of the system comes from kings and queens farming their people for money.  See that word 'their' implies ownership.  It means they own you.  It’s a broken system.  The judge is just like a king sitting up high behind his big bench doling out wrecked lives like his life depends on it.  Completely uninformed.  Those people are just doing what their told, no different than those convicted do, they just get paid to do it.  If those people cared for me at all they would never have sent me to prison. They would never send anyone there.    

It's no different in there either.  No different at all.  There is a booklet they hand out when you go to prison that explains the rules.  It had a chart that showed how much time a guy had to do before being able to see the parole board.  I had to do thirty six months on a ten year sentence.  I had been in long enough I had to find a new guy to double check the months.  Within the prison system is the parole system.  They had their own department and offices in the basement of the admin building.  I think there were five or six of them.  Let that sink in.  Five or six people for something close to a thousand inmates.  It's human farming without the physical brand.  With humans you don’t have to burn the skin to leave a mark. 

A guy gets to see their parole officer two times in prison.  Once before going to see the parole board, and once after to find out the results.  Two times; that’s it.  The first time it's basically a job interview.  Then she calls the various housing guards that you've spent time with.  Builds a profile of sorts, and makes a recommendation to the board.  The person who was in charge of my future barely had a thirty minute conversation with me one time.  That is a little better than the prosecuting attorney that is for sure.

As you can imagine, the weeks before the parole board meeting one is on another level.  The time between the interview and the meeting is quite tense.  I saw a lot of cats crack under the pressure.  It was almost a given that when a guy had a parole board meeting coming up everyone gave him some space.  Actually the whole game changes at that point.  Regardless of the result everyone always acted different after that meeting.  I wasn't the only guy in prison who self-sabotaged.  A lot of guys would fight because they couldn't handle the tension.  When one's future is arbitrarily in the hands of others who do not actually care about you at all; it is stressful. 

The parole board forced the one I hated more than anything back into my life.  She was insisting that because she had been working in prisons for so long, and knew some of the parole officers, that it would help me get out sooner if she was at the meeting.   I couldn't argue with that.  She showed up in her prison uniform like she was fucking proud of it or something.  I just wanted out of the ghetto really bad.  My contempt for her at this point was practically out in the room at all times.  I was only allowed to have one person with me when I went in front of the board.

I was anxious all morning waiting for the phone to ring in Stan’s office.  They had their own room in the same building as the visiting room.  Because JoAnn was going to be there I had to be stripped searched before and after.  Got to get that humiliation in; don’t want to skip that part.  The board consisted of three people.  Within the parole system were parole board positions.  They paid more than in prison officer positions, but they had to travel to all of the prisons, all the time.

They asked me some questions.  Another job interview basically except all the stuff my in prison officer asked me was in front of them on paper already.  Almost just like the fucking movies.  These people probably didn't even like their own lives, so I knew they didn't care about me.  They were just doing their jobs to get a pay check.  Who dreams of being a prison parole officer when they are a kid?  Who has that passion in life? 

That was it.  Didn't last fifteen minutes.  Then it became the same waiting game I had been playing for three years just much more intense.  Most of the guys who had crimes similar to mine were getting three and four year out dates.  They were being made to do over five years.  I was prepared for that too, but I still had hope.  For the most part I played all my cards right.  The fighting violations really weren't a big deal in their eyes because it was expected.  When I had my interview with my in prison parole officer she asked me if I had done any drugs while in prison.  I just looked at her and said if you don't the white guys who stand up for themselves won't have your back.  They won't let you in their circle.  That's just how it is.  She nodded in understanding and said thanks for not lying.  There would have to be something seriously wrong with a person if they didn't want to smoke cannabis while stuck in prison. 

In the interview with her it was the same with the fighting.  She literally said it to my face that if you’re on lower hill and you don't have any fighting violations you’re somebody's bitch.  I just started laughing with her because I wasn't anyone's bitch.  My efforts in the weight pile were pretty obvious at this point.  I was like a tree.  Lifting weights was my church.  That's where I prayed the most. Even without any knowledge of prison life, or me, not many would assume I was someone’s bitch.  I do have the crazy eyes after all. 

The kicker was that she was engaged to my boss Stan.  I'm not saying she did anything wrong.  From my perspective the advantage was that she knew me at all.  She had some idea of who I actually was.  There was a social connection.  She knew my struggle in life.  She herself went on to help kids.  I wasn’t just another face with a number.  She saw past my façade’s a bit.  She would come to the office to chat with Stan when I was there sometimes.  I am sure that she and Stan talked about me when I was not around, and I never really hid much from Stan.  In order for him to be able to best help me he needed to know the truth.  I wanted that help.  When I got the verdict back she told me that she wrote me a good report.  I worked really hard after that to earn that privilege.  I can't say she stuck her neck out for me, but I wasn't going to be the one who made her look bad for writing it.

Getting the results back comes on an unknown day.  The phone call comes randomly.  I paced a lot waiting on that.  When I am anxious and pacing people say I am like a tiger in a cage.  It can be felt.  The gangsters gave me my space.  I had other stuff going on too.  I hadn’t talked to Rachel for several months. I wasn’t going to crack though.  My whole life, my future, was riding on this.  I was aware of my own institutionalization, and was not sure what another two or three years was going to do to me.  It was giving me a sick feeling thinking about it.  Two more years in the ghetto?  There is no way that much time in there would not have had a negative impact on me.  It was dangerous riding hope like I was, but I had to.  Bad news would probably have ended with me in the hole for a while. 

I sat down in her office.  She hadn't even opened the envelope yet.  She was waiting for me.  As she opened it with her fingers the hair on the back of my neck stood up.  It was go time.  It's all riding on this.  I was at a fork in the road.  As she read it she smiled and told me congratulations.  I got a two year out date.  I asked her to re-read it to make sure.  I had to contain myself, but I was also stunned.  Something good had just happened to me.  That was a rare thing in my life. I’ve never been quick to believe good things.  I wanted to run screaming out of the building, but couldn’t.  I couldn’t openly celebrate at all.  I had to be super careful.  I could not fuck this up. 

It wasn't all good.  Cats that didn't get good outdates tended to want to take it out on cats who did.  I lost a lot of power that day.  A lot.  I went from being a guy with a ten year sentence, to a guy getting out in a year.  It's a big difference.  Huge. There were more than a few white guys really upset with me over it.  I shrugged them off.  I even told one of them who kept making comments right to his face, "I did the thing, I did what I had to do to get out early, and you didn't."  I told him, "I didn't hold you back."  He didn't really want to put me to a fight, he was just bitter.  Him and I had shoulder boxed a bit.  He didn't want to fight me at all.  The gangsters though were different.  They would be well aware I couldn't afford to fight as easily as I could prior to that verdict.

Luckily for me there was a work release program, and I was getting out of the ghetto for good.

Disgusting.

Roger was upstairs in D bay.  They kicked him out of 7 House for the white boy stunt too.  It seems the blacks didn't want him in there either.  I was trying to manipulate my way into D bay, so I had at least one person who would stand their ground.  Slick wasn't dependable.  He was the kind of guy that would let you get his back, but then isn't around when your own needs covered.  Dude was slick.  The other white guy in B bay was half my size, so the blacks didn't fear him even if they didn't mess with him.  B bay was no fun. 

Have I mentioned yet that prison is fucking disgusting?  Dirty, nasty, and disgusting all wrapped up in concrete and chain link fence.  I don't think I ever saw anything get truly cleaned.  It wasn't just the dirt though that made it so gross. 

The bathrooms in 5 House were at the end of the bay where the guard’s station was. Since I was moved to D bay, the upper level, the guards really couldn’t see that well into the bathroom. There were big round mirrors on the walls so that they could see into the corners of the room.  Directly behind the toilets was the standard security glass.  There were only six or seven shower heads.  This is why I never went to rec in the winter.  All those cats come back from working out and take showers at the same time.  Even if they weren’t gangsters, who wants to shower with twenty other dudes at the same time?  One would have to be an idiot to shower in that situation.

There were only a few female guards.  They are rare.  Not many women could handle that job I assume.  It definitely added some light to the situation JoAnn had been in for so long.  Those gangsters are relentless with the female guards.  Always up in their business.  Always flirting and saying crazy shit to them.  I remember once they put a female in 3 House for a few months.  I'm not sure how she managed that.  There is no way it didn't affect her life outside of prison.

There was one particular female guard that stood out.  She was a bigger woman.  Not fat, but big.   Even bigger were her boobs.  Dolly Parton big.  I thought she was ugly, but that was because she reminded me of the woman who gave birth to me.  After years of not being with a woman it is surprising how ugly women suddenly become appealing.   I could see her too, with that twinkle in her eye from all the attention.  Her job required her to act like she didn’t like it, but she did.  That guard with the giant boobs got her share of attention that is for sure.

In D bay there was a gangster they called Tony Tone.  He was older, dumb, and aggressive.  He was disgusting too.  For whatever reason Dolly was in 5 House one day.  She was new to lower hill, so the gangsters were all excited and all over her.  I go to the bathroom to take a piss and there is Tony Tone, plain as day, legs spread on a toilet jacking off to her via the mirror.  No privacy, no nothing.  He’s laughing and talking to people as they go in and out of the bathroom.  Just right out in the open jacking it.  Disgusting.  This wasn't some rare event either.  It was common place. 

Friday and Saturday nights lights out was later than through the week.  Saturday nights were a spectacle.  Cinemax had late night shows with partial nudity and what not.  Half the bay would be jacking off on a Saturday night.  Gangsters will straight up talk to you while they are doing it without even breaking rhythm.  It wasn't wise to be walking around the bay on Saturday nights in gangster land. 

I got moved to 1 House after doing some time in 5.  Like I said, I was forever that pawn piece.  They were always moving me around.  There was a gay black guy in 1 House named Nikki.  After lights out gangsters would take turns going to the bathroom.  A lot of times at lights out the guard would go down the hall and talk to another guard.  Four toilet stalls right next to each other with a short wall in between.  Gangsters would fill all four stalls and whenever one would leave another would take his place.  Nikki would go from toilet to toilet sucking dick.   Dude did that shit in church too.  Gangsters would meet him at church.  Pretty damn gross really.  Fucking disgusting.  Not the church part, but the amount of dicks sucked by one guy part. 

Lots of crazy shit went on in 1 House.  It became the drug house of lower hill.  Shit was so sketchy in there even my locker got hit when I moved in there.  Dude named Deuce Deuce hit my locker.  I had to pull a lot of weight with gangsters to get my shit back.  It was that or it was going to get super sketchy.  I even impressed myself in that situation with how much stress I caused gangsters trying to get my shit back.  The guard of the house flat told me he wouldn't see a thing and to do what I had to do.  Gangsters fear a crazy white boy like none other, but it was my fault for moving to a new house with that much shit in my locker.  It was like dangling a Twinkie in front of a fat kid who was in a gang of fat kids.  

1 House was super sketchy for small white boys.  There were more than a few wild ass gangsters in there.  I came home from work one day to a new bunky.  His last name was Cotton.  He was a really small white guy.  Like 140lbs. maybe.  When I got to the house a bunch of gangsters were already trying to sweat him.  He didn’t even have his shit in his locker yet.  When they saw me though, they all split.  Being someone's bunky kind of had a certain amount of proprietariness to it.  They knew I would stick up for the small white boy too. 

I was already somewhat familiar with this Cotton cat, so I made it clear to the gangsters to leave him alone without directly saying so.  Respect.  They left him alone too, even in the shower.  I made it clear to Cotton too, that I was keeping the gangsters at bay.  Problem was Cotton had a small man's complex, so he was always talking shit to me.  Openly, in front of the whole bay sometimes.  I kept warning him to knock it off too.  I spent a week or two warning him.  Then one day he said the wrong shit in front of the wrong cat.  He made a gangster laugh talking shit to me.  I stopped protecting him.  He got moved out of the house a week or two later.  He couldn't handle the gangsters on his own.  I couldn't handle someone talking shit to me when I was helping them out.

The worst was a dude named Willow.  Short guy.  One of those guys that is nice no matter what.  Why the fuck they put him in 1 House was beyond me.  It’s like they wanted some dudes to get fucked.  The urinals faced the showers.  Middle of the day I go in to take a piss, and as I was pissing I see a gangster in the shower moving like he is jacking off.  I look down.  Can’t even piss without seeing disgusting shit.  I don't want to see that shit.  As I was zipping up I see Willow's head come up.  Dude wasn’t jacking off he was pounding the shit out of that white boy.  I just walked out.

Later Willow is in the bay talking to some other white guys.  He's pale and looks terrible.  We asked him what was up.  Why was he letting that happen?  Why was he doing that?  Why didn’t he come to us for help?  He replied that they were locked up for so long that he was just helping them out.  It was the least he could do, he said.  Can you believe that?  My jaw dropped.  Those gangsters literally talked him into it.  They didn’t have to forcibly rape him.  Through sheer pressure and time they wore him down to the point where he was letting them fuck his ass; willingly.  I wanted to be sick.  Rules are rules though; you can't stick up for someone who won't stick up for their self. 

Institutionalized.

Separating one’s thinking from one’s actions is no small thing.  Growing up is often a bitch.  It is natural is it not, that when we grow up we realize our thinking is not necessarily who we are?  Some perhaps never realize this.  I was learning that I could teach myself to think.  In this process I also realized that JoAnn had taught me something important in life without having meant to, without my having realized it either until it was done.  She taught me to be conniving.  That's what she was.  It was something she had to do because she was female.  It’s how she survived.  That was the only true power she had in this sexist world.  The issue was though, that with all my being I didn't want to be like her.  Unfortunately there are some things that cannot easily be undone.

Sitting out on the yard with some other guys, talking about what they would be doing if they were out, I realized I did not know.  I had no idea what I would do.  My dream was surviving.  I didn't care about the petty things those other guys thought about.   I sat out on the yard many evenings after that wondering what I would do if I were out, and I just didn't know.  My past was trash.  I had no choice but to throw it all out.  I couldn't use it for reference regarding making good decisions.  All my past was, was memories of what not to do.  I had no choice, but to begin using my intuition differently.  I had to develop a new way to think.  In a certain way it was all I had.

On upper hill you could see the roof tops of houses.  Along the perimeter fence on one side of the prison was a cemetery.  There was a road that went all the way around the prison right next to the fence.  There was always a guard in the car with a loaded shotgun.  Along the side where the main and upper hill yard connected, was a steep embankment with the cemetery on top.  To the west of the tombstones began a residential neighborhood.  Every day you could see houses and just a touch of the outside world.  Just the shingles, and a few strips of siding here and there. 

The spiritual life was being crammed down my throat.  There was freedom, and I had forgotten what it was.  I felt free being in prison.  All I knew was prison.  It consumed me in there.  The future I was looking forward to was unknown to me, so I focused almost entirely on the moment.  I couldn't imagine what that future would be. 

All of the self-analyzing made me realize the different versions of myself.  The inmate, the boyfriend, the son, the grandson.  There were all these different views.  I realized no one had any idea who I was.  In prison I had countless selves because one’s whole world could change just by moving three bunks down the wall.   It was an eerie feeling in a way.

Unfortunately no one was teaching me to learn how to just be myself. I saw myself kind of like a chameleon.  I just blended with whatever environment I happened to be in.  How could I possibly have known what I was going to do with my life when I had just begun undoing what had been done to me?  How could I know what I would do when I got out?  I was still in prison.  Everyone was telling me to be this or that, do this or that, think this or that.  It made me feel institutionalized.  Isn't that a mouthful?  Institutionalized.  But it was true.  How was I supposed to know what I was to do in life if I didn’t even know who I was?  There was a startling contrast between what I was born to be and what I was raised to be.  There is no book that knows what one is born to do.  I've looked.

By seeing all these different roles being played out I became aware of my own mental world.  It was another self all on its own.  My Self.  The bigger self probably.  It's hard to know with all the lines blurred.  I became acutely aware that I knew a whole bunch of things no one else knew, and even more importantly that I was always paying attention to a whole bunch of things no one else was paying attention to.  Still to this day I will be the guy paying attention to everyone else from the side of the room measuring and calculating. Conniving. There really couldn’t have been a better way to teach me to always be aware of my surroundings than prison.  It ingrained it in me.  It was a double stack for me.  Not only did my childhood force it on me, but prison did too. 

I day dreamed of simple things like riding down the road in a car with the windows down and the radio blaring.  I day dreamed of being with Rachel.  I really had no idea what it was going to be like getting out because all I knew was crazy town USA.  I wasn’t going to live like that again. 

It's sad, and I didn't like to think about it, but being institutionalized for me had to do with fear.  Fear of being free.  Fear of not feeling safe anymore.  I don’t like being afraid of things.  How could I be a man and fear something such as freedom at the same time?  It wasn't that I didn't know what petty thing I wanted to do because I hadn’t gotten to do it in for so long.  It’s a no brainer; first thing out I’m having sex. It wasn't even a question. I was struggling with a much deeper fear.  It was the fear of life. What was I going to do when I got out?  What was I going to do with my life?  It was scary.  In prison I knew exactly what I was going to do.  I was really good at it too.

Prison was all about power, with defined systematic rules.  I thrived in it socially speaking.  It was after all a thriving social organism, violent or not, and anyone with an ability to pay attention to social detail will do well in such a place.  Institutionalized.  One is not supposed to like prison.  When one fears the thing being taken it's like Stockholm syndrome in reverse.  I didn't love my captor, but my captor's ways.  When one fears the reward it is no longer a reward.  It really was Rachel that saved me.  Had she not stayed by my side like she did I would never have made it out of there.  I love power, and power comes easy in there. 

I always made sure I was one of the top five strongest white boys in general population.  I always made sure my prison greys were pressed and sharp.  I never gave anyone a reason to criticize me ever again after that escapade with the locker.  I always made sure I was one of the best hand ball players.  I read the most books.  I knew the most white boys.  I had the most gangster respect.  I had the best job in the prison.  I knew the most civilian employees.  I took every class they offered and read every book suggested to me.  Ha!   I even knew my parole officer.  My boss Stan was engaged to my in prison parole officer. I was not fucking around.

That was the difference between me and pretty much an entire prison; I could see the difference.  I was attempting to be as conscious as possible as to what was going on and then using it to my advantage.  I took the conniving JoAnn gave me and lifted myself out of the hole with it.  If I am going to be conniving I might as well use it to my benefit.  I wasn't hurting anyone else bettering myself.  Most people don’t even call it conniving anymore if you use it to do well.  They call it strategy, or planning.  I didn't hold anyone else back, or push them down, when I climbed to the top, but I didn’t call it anything other than what it was; conniving. 

One minute I was practically a lone white boy in the ghetto, a spot, the next I'm the most powerful white boy in the prison, a star; same day, same five minutes.  Go up the hill to my job and I suddenly become one of the best behaved inmates in the prison.  Everyone saw me differently, and more importantly I could see it myself when they could not.  Go out on the yard and I was one of the more powerful white boys in camp.  Go to my job and I was an eighteen year old punk who didn't know anything desperately trying to learn.  Go ask a guard and I was a pawn piece to keep gangsters in check.  Go to the visiting room and I was in love.  I could see all the different me's going about their day.  Go to my bunk with me and I would have just been another primate with an identification number waiting his turn in line.  Go into my head and I was a nobody desperately trying to be somebody. 

It's weird now, looking back.  It's like the doctor whose social life fails.  She has all this information regarding physical health, yet cannot maintain her intimate relationships.  Does she not know they require the same amount of effort and study as medical school?  Does she not know that to be good at anything one must put in their time?  I had all this know how regarding one thing, but hardly any in this other.  I was still stifling my emotions.  I had too.  I couldn't let all that out at once.  It would have torn me apart, so I took on bits and pieces, slowly plodding along, even though compared to everyone else I was practically sprinting. 

I was climbing out of the hole slowly, but surely.  Suffering was the teacher, and the learning was unlearning.  Being institutionalized helped me to forget and unlearn what I had been taught.  When I tell friends this story I often say prison was the best I ever had it up until that point in my life.  It gave me somewhere else to work from other than just abuse.  It gave me an identity. It gave me rules and structure.  I used it to reign myself in.  Just like I used conniving to climb to the top of the social hierarchy, I used prison to reign myself in.  It was better to live by prison rules than the ones I knew from my past. 

Mad grip

That job working for the substance abuse coordinator got me out of the ghetto for a bit.  As the prison adapted to the drug war more, more state money was being made available within the prison system.  They not only had the money to pay salaries, but they also came up with the idea of turning an entire housing unit into a drug therapy house.  I can’t remember the exact title, but that was brilliant right?  Shouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what happens when you fill an entire housing unit with nothing but drug users.  It's kind of laughable, and all of us got a good laugh too, but I had to do what I had to do.  I needed that program on my resume for the parole board, joke or not.

What made it an even bigger deal to me was that the house they decided to use was 7 House.  Upper hill baby!  No more ghetto.  It was glorious.  So many things were amazing about that move.  It was amazing.  It was like a vacation, but yet, still in prison.  Roger was there too.  The house was almost half white people. It was culture shock for a week or two.  I got a chance to relax some because I didn't have to be on complete edge all day every day.  7 House practically had its own yard too.  It was a two level housing unit with a bay on the bottom floor.  The guard’s desk was on the top floor, so that bottom bay was what’s up.  At that time it was the penthouse bay of Booneville.  I couldn't ever figure out what that houses original design had been for, but it wasn't for confining humans.  There was practically no security in that house whatsoever.  It was awesome.

The one set back to these substance abuse programs was that cats would get all up in their feelings and then be dramatic just like they did in that 120 day shock program.  Cats were always stressed out about whether or not they would get to go home.  Someone was always snitching to get in good with the guards and counselors.  Lot's of stupid drama.  I open hand smacked a cat once on the yard for asking me if I thought he would get out by Christmas.  I asked his info, then just smacked him right in front of everyone for asking me.  The cat had not even been locked up a year yet.   Didn't he know I had at least two more Christmas's to do.  Some cats had no respect. 

I didn't have to worry about getting jumped by a bunch of gangsters anymore , but had to worry about being snitched on instead.  I still had to pay attention to what everyone was doing all the time just for different reasons.  Getting snitched on was a ticket back to the ghetto.  That grip is maddening though.  The hyper-masculinity was just too strong in me still.  I couldn't be played for a chump.  I just couldn't let that happen. 

I was in that bay in the basement too, the penthouse, and with Roger at that.  Because of that the fear of being jumped was practically zero.  There was something like twenty guys in that bay.  Mostly passive white guys and non-gangster blacks.  The few gangsters that were in 7 House were kept upstairs nearer the guard’s desk.  When I first moved to 7 House it was a new program so they were gradually switching it all over.  Because of my job working for Stan, he got me moved there right from the get.  That job made me one of the more influential inmates in the whole prison.  I saw the most powerful civilians in the prison every day.  They talked to me, called me by first name, knew who I was.  It got me out of the ghetto.

The substance abuse house was full of drugs.  How the prison staff did not see that coming is beyond me.  Even more powerful than drugs though was that grip.  A joint the size of a toothpick is worth ten bucks.  Do you know how many toothpick sized joints can be rolled out of an ounce of reg?  A freaking quarter is potentially worth hundreds of dollars.  A quarter on the street is twenty five bucks, generally, if you don't know street culture.  It's lucrative if you remember having a hundred bucks is wealthy in prison.

I'm not kidding about getting beat up over a dollar.  You see, it's not really the dollar so much as it is the principle of the matter.  It's weakness to be owed money and not get it back.  It's an extreme sign of weakness.  If one person is allowed to slide on debt, next thing you know no one pays you back.  It's gangster mafia style.  It wasn't just cannabis that was lucrative.  All of it was. 

Let's say you went to another inmate because you were hungry and didn't have any ramen.  It's two for one.  That means if you get two packs of ramen from a guy, next commissary you own him four.  Now let's say something goes wrong, and the money your family sent you didn't make it to your books like you thought it would, and you can't get the four packs of ramen back to dude.  You now owe him eight.  If you don't pay him back next commissary, it's sixteen.  That doesn't stop until it’s paid.  The more one owes the more drastic the methods of obtaining the money.  I had seen more than a few get smashed over debt.  If gangsters could get a white guy in debt, he typically would stay in debt the remainder of his time in prison.  It was never ever wise to deal with grip and gangsters.

It was never a good thing to owe me either.  My bunky in 7 House owed me big.  He owed me over a hundred bucks.  It was close to two hundred actually.  I never doubled his debt either.  It was partly my fault for letting a guy get into my pocket that deep.  I was cutting him slack and not doubling it.  Doubling would have kept him in debt to me for his entire stay, and I just didn't want to deal with that.  I just wanted my grip back.  He kept telling me his family was sending him the grip.  Roger and I were getting impatient.  It was our stuff that this cat owed on.  Selling drugs in there is the same as it is on the street.  It's less stressful to sell a chunk to someone else and have them break it up.  Selling individual joints is much more risky and time consuming than just selling a quarter to a guy.  My bunky wasn't making good on his debt.  He was making us look bad.  We couldn’t afford to not be paid back.  Even worse, we could not afford to look bad. 

For over two weeks I was warning this guy.  I was giving him the opportunity to make good on it.  I was letting him know what's up.  He kept telling me that as soon as his family came for a visit he would have the grip.  Real cash is worth more than money on the books or commissary items.  This cat owed me mad grip, so I would gladly have taken cash.  I needed that grip.  He came back from that visit empty handed.  I quit talking to him.  He was my bunky though, so he had to deal with me or check himself in to the hole.  He was scared. 

The bay was the same as the rest.  Bunks down two walls with a wide walk way in the middle.  The same metal lockers, one between the bunks, one at the foot of the bunks.  Because of the transition to a substance abuse program there was some turn over.  There were a bunch of new cats in the bay.  Directly next to me, on the bottom bunk was a new guy.  He was fresh out of R&O.  It was literally his first day in general population.  I didn't even know his name.  Being in 7 House he couldn't have been a gangster or he would have been upstairs so I wasn't worried about him at all.

The guard comes downstairs at lights out to turn out the lights and make sure everyone is in their bunks, and then goes right back upstairs.  I waited about ten minutes, then jumped out of bed.  My bunky was lying flat on his stomach.  I grabbed the top of his head, using his hair to pull his head back.  I used my other hand to grab his neck, pulled him off the bunk and slammed him to the floor.  I was crouched over him letting him know he had one more week then it was going to be so sketchy he was going to have to check in. 

As I am doing this I looked over to my right and all I saw was two big white eyes.  It almost made me laugh even though I had this cat snatched up.  This black guy is lying there as wide eyed as could be.  Poor guy had no clue what was going on at all.  He had to of been scared shitless.  His first day in and this big white boy is slamming cats on the floor.  He never said anything.  Just laid there.  I really scared that dude bad, and didn't even mean to.  I wasn't thinking of him at all.  I needed that grip.  I laughed for a long time whenever I would think of those big white eyes, not even two feet from me staring at me.  He wasn't in danger; he just didn't know it.

Next day I'm back in the hole.  Seven days later I was back out.  That in and of itself was glorious.  Turns out the blacks in the house snitched on me to get the big white boy out of the house.  They hated me even more when they didn't have the majority numbers.  Cut throat.  It was just like I said.  I didn't have to worry about getting jumped by a bunch of gangsters on upper hill.  I had to worry about being snitched on.  Those cats were just using that white boy I slammed and that was probably why he couldn’t pay me back.  He was more scared of the blacks than he was of me.  He was in their pocket too. 

When I was in the hole I was informed that because no guard saw what happened they couldn't prove anything, but what they could do was keep me in the hole indefinitely on investigation.  If I would just admit to it I could get out the same day.  No brainer.  I told them I did it, and I was out of the hole a few hours later.  What they didn't tell me at that time was that I would not be going back to 7 House.  Punking out that white boy earned me a spot in 5 House.  I went from the most peaceful house to the most chaotic. 

5 House was fifty man bays.  Big long rooms with bunks all the way down the walls barracks style.  There were seven white boys in B bay when I got there.  Only two of them stood up for themselves, so basically there were three of us.  The blacks ruled that house, top to bottom.  Even the guards acted differently while in that house. 

First thing out of the hole I had to call Rachel.  From her perspective I just went missing for a week.  She had no idea what was going on.  Soon as I got my locker put in place I was in the rec room using the phone.  It was just a small room at the front of the bay where the steps leading out were.  Had some seats and a TV.  The wall where the steps were was all glass so the guards could kind of see what was going on.  As I was talking on the phone four gangsters came in, sat down, and just mugged me.  They just sat and stared at me while I talked.  Apparently new white boys had to ask permission to use the phone.  Those gangsters were yet to learn I wasn't that kind of white boy.

I knew as soon as they said 5 House I wasn't going to be sleeping much for at least a week.  The way those cats tried to intimidate me in the rec room I figured I was guaranteed to have to fight.  My new bunkies name was Cali Cal.  He worked in laundry.  He'd been down for a minute.  He had a lot of clout in gangland.  I didn't know any of these cats at all though.  I kind of knew one of the white guys they called Slick.  Trust me, he earned that nickname too.  They did not call him Slick for no reason.  He was a big ass white boy too.  He wasn’t going to help me though without my proving myself either.  Wasn't just the blacks that tested new cats.  First night in, I slept with my boots on. 

Soon as the lights went out and the guard climbed the short set of stairs leading out  the bay, Cali Cal started calling out to others.  He said, "You all ready?"  From across the bay, "Let's do this dog, let's roll."   I was trying to make sense of the gangster speak.  They were talking shit.  My heart was pounding.  I was geared up and ready to go.   

Dude turned on some music, then one of them started singing.  Turns out it had nothing to do with me.  They were talking about listening to music after lights out, but using such crazy slang to express it I thought I was about to get jumped.  The rec room thing was just to see if I would act scared.  Gangsters are always looking for scared white boys to prey upon.  I wasn't scared in that way.  I never showed fear.  It was just the social organism feeling out this new person, testing and prodding.  I'm sure the rumors of me got around via their social networks, so those cats already knew about me to a certain degree.  They would have talked to their people in 2 House.  In terms of gang activity 2 House didn't have shit on 5 House, but they still would have been asking their boys what was up with me.  There were more than a few gangsters who would vouch for my being legit for a white boy. 

Those cats were always fighting amongst themselves in 5 House.  The guards had no clue how to separate various gangs, or even which ones were fighting with each other.  They were clueless.  Crypts and Bloods, this street vs. that street, KC vs. St. Louis.  The only ones who really knew what was up were the gang members themselves.  Even I was never able to figure it all out and I was trying.  I was all the time talking to certain gangsters about the drama trying to figure it all out. 

In terms of my environment in 5 House; it sucked.  In terms of power; it was a huge move up.  It was pure notoriety.  It was a big move actually.  Not only did I become a rare white boy that gangsters didn't mess with, but they also respected me.  I was the guy who choked slammed someone for not paying up.  I got a lot of respect for not being racist.  I got all kinds of respect in gangland for that.  Everyone, who was someone, knew what was up after that. I even heard a parole officer say it.  If you don't get in fights in Booneville your somebody's punk, or you're a bitch.