Anger

Making me angry these days is about as easy as getting one of those Buckingham Palace guards with the big furry hats to crack a smile. I’ve been down and getting kicked for so long now, that simple disrespect or mistreatment doesn’t even come close to getting my ire up. Honestly, it doesn’t do you a whole lot of good to get angry in prison. You let another convict know you’re mad at him and he’s probably going to want to fight, and if you pop off at the mouth to a cop you’ll be REALLY sorry—that will either end in an ass-whipping, or a vacation to the hole, and either one will leave a bad taste in your mouth. (The blood or the food.)

But recently, these cops did something that frustrated me so much that I was ready to lick one of the jerks and stick him to the wall. I used to be a fireball in the temper department, but lately I’m a pretty cool customer. When you tick me off nowadays, I get this methodical, Don Corleone thing going, but I’m telling you—I almost blew a fuse. Here’s what happened.

I’m all about my friends and family. As weird as it may sound, I feel obligated to constantly remind them how much they mean to me. It probably seems like it would be the other way around—them reminding me how much they miss me—but I know they love me. I want to make sure that they know how important it is that I can still call them loved ones. After all these years, I don’t have many people left, so I’m doing everything I can to hold on to what I’ve got.

So, as often as I can, I send little reminders—a drawing, a card, a little note to Mom saying, “I Love You.” And not just on special occasions. I have two beautiful nieces that don’t really know me very well, but they know they have an Uncle somewhere far away who thinks the world of them. Well, I made some absolutely adorable drawings of teddy bears on white fabric, with frayed edges, full color—they were awesome. A lot of work, too. So I stuck them between some paper, threw them in a big envelope, and mailed them to my two little angels with a note saying that I made these things special, just for them, and told them how much I love them. I could just picture the ear-to-ear grin on the seven year old’s face when she opened her envelope and saw . . . nothing but a piece of paper.

That’s right, some jerk who “inspected” my mail (we’re not allowed to seal our own envelopes) swiped my niece’s presents. I can only imagine the baffled look on her angelic face as she tried to comprehend why her favorite uncle would tease her with non-existent gifts.

Obviously, I didn’t find this out right away. It wasn’t until I got a letter in the mail telling me that the drawings I promised in the letter weren’t in the envelope that I knew something was rotten in Whoville. I tend to give the benefit of the doubt in most situations, but after a while you kind of get an intuition for when the cops here are hosing you. This one felt wet.

So, I waited until the overnight shift (that’s when they sort the mail) and caught the guy who I knew was in charge of the mail as he was walking by my cell. I calmly explained the situation, hoping he would tell me it was a mistake, or something that would make me feel better. But no, this guy got a big smile on his face, and looked me right in the eyes and said, “I threw them out.”
“Why,” I inquired.
“You’re not allowed to send out drawings,” he said. (Not true!)
“Why didn’t you come tell me?” I asked.
“Because I don’t have to.”
“Why didn’t you give the drawings back?”
“You’re not allowed to have them.”
“’Cause you said so?”
“Yep. You getting smart with me?”
“Yep.” (I couldn’t help it.) “Okay, why did you still send out the letter saying that I was sending drawings?”
“Because I don’t mess with people’s mail.”
AAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!

In horse racing, when they get to the home stretch, the jockey starts whipping the horse furiously to get all the horse has to give. Except they don't call it “hitting” the horse—that wouldn’t be very nice. They call it “encouraging” the horse. Well, I would have liked to “encourage” the living daylights out of that cop right then and there.

Just one problem with that. Between me and him was a gigantic steel door, and he had the keys. I could’ve cussed up a storm. I could’ve “filed” a complaint. I even could have covered him in something unpleasant through the crack in the door. But in the end, none of that would have gotten my nieces their pictures, and that’s all I wanted. So I did something I’ve gotten really good at over the years. I told him that he was the boss, and I was glad I knew the rules now. Humility, my friends, is the single best weapon you can have in this place. Pride has disastrous results. Sometimes I feel like one of those oppressed Muslim women who aren't allowed to drive or be seen in public. Life is hard sometimes, but I guess most days you’re just better off not pissing off the Sultan. Because if the Sultan decides to beat you, there’s no one to complain to.

So, I’m over it now. I send an apology to the kids, and already managed to get some new art work out to them. I’m crafty like that. I don’t have to worry about my food getting spit in, and there’s no foot wedged in my derriere. Another classic win-lose situation for me here behind bars. Of course I’ll get screwed again next week, and every week after that until I get out, but at least I’ll get out, and I’m looking forward to when they hand me my pride back at the front gate. I miss it a little bit.

AN OPEN LETTER TO PARIS HILTON

Dear Paris,

Greetings from one convict to another! I hope everything is going well for you there in the “Linwood Hilton.” I wasn’t going to write you, but I see that the first couple days in jail didn’t go too well for you, so I’ll give you some advice. Ya know, from one hard-core con to another.

First of all, no more outbursts in the courtroom. You only have 23 days to do. Hold your weave high and do your time. 23 days isn’t even long enough for you to learn anything, let alone get institutionalized. After 23 days, you’re still mad you got caught, not remorseful for what you did. So suck it up, and don’t worry. You’ll still be the same irresponsible snob you were before. The only difference will be that now you’ll have street cred.

Second, we don’t feel sorry for you, so stop thinking we do. Wallowing in self pity isn’t going to make you any money, so let’s get our priorities straight. We all know that there is going to be a book coming out of this whole ordeal, so let’s not make it a boring one. It’s time to have some high incarceration adventures! Get in some cat fights! Drink some jailhouse “hooch!” You know how you made Nicole and Britney your bitches in Hollywood? Try that in there! Just walk up to the first girl you see who looks like she ought to have the nickname “Large Marge,” and slap the taste out of her mouth! Then you tell her “I’m your pimp mommy now,” and make her wash your panties in the toilet. Lindsay Lohan will cower before you when you get out! For God’s sake, give us something exciting. No one wants to read about how you found Jesus in there. We might have credibility issues with that one.

Next, we all want to see some mementos of your “hard time.” Like a tattoo. You can choose one yourself, but I would suggest something symbolic, like the judges name, or even that cool looking barbed wire around the wrist or an ankle. Also, it would be cool if you could pick up some prison lingo, and drop us a few snippets in your coming-out-of-jail press conference. Try this one, “The screws made it tough, and the chow was like, totally gross, but I kept my shank close by and nobody messed with me or my cell cell bitch.” We’ll love you forever!

Finally, let’s not get stuck in a rut here. A few weeks for probation violation is good P.R., but it’s going to take something bigger and better for the next time. We don’t really want to see you in rehab (Lindsay & Britney have that niche locked up), so simple possession isn’t going to do it for us. Winona Ryder did the shoplifting thing years ago, so that’s not going to cut it either. We’re going to need some violence out of you. Or at least a high speed chase. Start thinking about the future, okay?

Listen, we just want what’s best for you. This whole jail ordeal is going to make you a couple million at least. And that’s for 23 days. 23 days! I’m working on a 10 piece (years), and I’ll be lucky to get 50 bucks and a bus ticket home when it’s all said and done. The least you can do is be grateful for the opportunity. And maybe put me in touch with your agent?

Yours Truly,

Andrew (and the world)

Experiment

Let’s do a little thought experiment here. Picture yourself locked in your bathroom. If you have a TV or a radio in there—it is gone. All you have in there with you is a foam mattress, linen, basic hygiene products (soap, shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant), pen and paper, and a few random books to read. You are brought meals in little plastic trays three times a day. You have approximately 20 minutes to eat, and then some one will come back and demand the trays back.

Every weekday at 6:00 in the morning, you will be allowed to spend an hour in your bedroom, which is completely empty. At the end of your hour of “rec,” you will be escorted back to the bathroom (in handcuffs), not to be allowed out until the next morning. Since you already have access to a toilet, shower, and sink, there’s no need to go anywhere for hygiene purposes.

About three times a week, a nurse will walk by your bathroom door. He or she will not announce their presence, but if you happen to catch them they will listen to any health concerns you have, and refer you to a doctor. All ailments short of imminent death will be put on a waiting list, and probably take 3–4 weeks to be consulted. Dental problems will take longer, likely 2–3 months. Pain is no excuse, you should have the foresight to know when you’re developing such maladies.

You may have a total stranger in your bathroom with you. You will be expected to be cordial to each other and resolve all differences independently if you have any.

Finally, you should do your level best to avoid any emergencies. In the event you cannot refrain, you must kick your door loudly, all the while screaming, “Man Down!” hoping someone will hear you. Allow at least 15 minutes of this before expecting a response. Again, foresight of said emergency would be preferable. Oh, and if your emergency is deemed unworthy of the effort required to find out what it is, you will be disciplined (most likely with EVEN MORE time in the bathroom), so make it good. Heart attacks and strokes are mostly deemed acceptable. After that, it’s touch and go.

Congratulations! Now you know what it’s like to be in ”the hole.” How long do you think you can do it for? A day? A week? A month? The average stay is a couple months. My current record is 22 months.

Does this sort of existence slowly drive you insane? It can if you’re not careful. I’ve seen guys spend a year or two in the hole and come out broken, with their zeal gone. If you have a strong mind, though, you’ll probably be okay. You have to learn to find joy in some of the simple things in life, that’s for sure.

Let me get one thing straight before I go on—You don’t necessarily have to do anything wrong to get thrown in the hole. The penal powers-that-be use “the bucket” for any number of purposes, and punishment is only one of them. Actually, punishment is probably the least of reasons they put people in for. Most guys that get in trouble get out in a week or two. What they really throw fellas in for is either because they want to keep someone separated from someone else (so they don’t try to kill each other), they think someone needs protection, or (my favorite) because they want to discourage someone from activity that isn’t necessarily against the rules, but certainly isn’t conductive to indignation of “model prisoner behavior.”

Well, what you end up with is a bunch of really frustrated guys trying to persuade the cops to either let them out or send them somewhere so they don’t have to sit in the hole. Of course, prison officials take their sweet time doing anything. So mostly pleas are to no avail. Your basic bureaucracy has a hard time getting things organized, and this system is a headless machine if I’ve ever seen one.

So, you have to make the best of it. Like I said before, it has the potential to break you, but most of us find ways to cope. You got an opportunity to do some real soul-searching. We take pretty good care of each other, too. Whatever books or magazines we have are in constant circulation. I learned a long time ago to always read the most ragged, worn looking books I can find in here. It means they’re good. They have been read so much that they are falling apart.

Things don’t always run smooth. Guys will get into conversations with each other (you can hear through the doors) and about once a night, you can count on some ridiculous argument breaking out. This will quickly escalate into a carnival of insults, threats, and challenges worthy of a Springer-esque chant: “Jer-ry! Jer-ry!” With a couple of 400-pound steel doors between them, guys will say almost anything. You can just picture the steam coming out of these guys ears when they get all worked up, and there’s nothing they can do about it. When they get drunk and want to fight, it’s twice the madness. They will settle it by agreeing to go to the recreation cages in the morning and beat the heck out of each other, but they rarely “remember” to go.

I suppose there are some good things that can come out of an experience in isolation. You’ll get a chance to do some serious learning, if you’re so inclined. It’s a good place to figure out where you stand spiritually. You’re almost certainly safe (unless that whole medical system backfires on you) in there. You’ll get an opportunity to write lots of letters and maybe hash things out with family.

But the bottom line is, you don’t have any choice in the matter. You either adapt or lost your mind. I’d like to think my sanity is still intact, but I’m certainly not the same after the ordeal. As for whether or not I’ve gone off the deep end, I’ll let you decide. Now ,if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go spend some time with my imaginary friend, Iggy. I met him a couple years ago in the hole. He’s been with me ever since.

Death makes us real

The eminently quotable Mark Twain once scribed, “The mere knowledge of a fact is pale; but when you come to realize your fact, it takes on color. It is all the difference between hearing of a man being stabbed to the heart, and seeing it done.” If you’ve ever been unfortunate enough to have seen such violence, I’m sure you agree.

I grew up in the 80s, and never had cable as a kid. None of the other kids in my neighborhood did either, so my friends and I were always limited in what kind of movies we could watch. A good R-rated movie was harder for us to get our hands on than the “secret location” where our Mom hid our lunch sweets. (HELLO, Little Debbie!)

I guess we finally got a VCR when I was 8 or 9 years old, but remember, we’re talking about a time before Blockbuster Video and Netflix. Any attempt to liberate anything but purely children’s fare from the local Mom & Pop video store was sure to invoke a requested explanation (which was always the same, “It’s for my Dad!”), and ultimately an unwelcome phone call to not-so-understanding and not-quite-wanting-to-be-bothered parents who saw NO EXPLANATION for their 8 year old trying to rend “Rambo” or “Friday the 13th Part XII: Jason Kills INNOCENT OLD LADIES.”

Every now and then, still, we would somehow manage (through tactics which can never be revealed) to possess one of these forbidden and ostensibly inappropriate videotapes. Then, down in a basement, far out of parental earshot, we would torture our young psyches with scenes of Freddy Krueger slashing his sinful teenage victims, fallen heroes gaining vengeance by going on bloody rampages, and soon-to-be-robotic police officers being tortured with gunfire at the hands of the soon-to-be-remorseful bad guys.

I always had to watch the most graphic scenes through slightly spread fingers, and rarely saw the payoff. I was somehow compelled to look away at the bloodiest, goriest moments. I think we all were. But we didn’t let on. Instead, we gave high fives all around as each scene climaxed, and talked of how we couldn’t wait to see who would get it next.

Usually, sometime after the fact, our exploits would be discovered. Whether through an ineptly hidden videocassette, or a nightmare that brought the truth out of one of us in a moment of weakness. At that point, a doting mom would insist we NEVER watch such trash again, lest we be scarred for life. The thing was, we weren’t scarred for life because deep down inside, even though we were kids, we knew the difference between fantasy and reality. It was only a movie, after all.

Not long ago, fate handed me a front row seat for the most violent and gruesome of the several murders I’ve had to endure witness to. Even on the silver screen, this scene alone would easily ear a film an NC-17 rating, or worse. To watch even a fictional portrayal of such unadulterated malice and undiluted macabre would be disturbing to the sane, if not disabling to the sensitive.

But to compare the experience to marketable entertainment is simply unfair. I’m sure if you were to ask the men and women who have served in our wars, and been on the front lines where violent death is commonplace, they would tell you that no movie can replicate what they saw and felt.

I am not a Veteran, but I can tell you this: Improvised prison shanks do not whistle in slow motion when they kill. Cold-blooded murderers do not stop and say insightful, plot-related things before they take a life. The look on a man’s face as he comes to the realization that he has been eviscerated is not worthy of a close-up shot, because it only comes fleeting as he slumps to the floor lifeless, expired. And the moment after it is over, there is no invisible hand (or editor) that cuts to some less dramatic scene. You cannot erase or soon forget the evidence of what has just happened in front of you.

There are very few of us in prison who are so heartless, so void of emotion that they are not deeply affected by being witness to a killing. We all deal with it in different ways. Some try to laugh about it, some try to desensitize, a few even secretly go to their cells and cry. Almost always, however, you can count on there being a serenity and reflectivity throughout the prison for at least a few days afterwards. Even in instances where there is to be a retaliation murder, it seems we are all given a brief time to adjust, as if too much violence at once would somehow be more than we could collectively handle.

On average, a maximum-security penitentiary probably has one or two homicides a year inside its walls. We’re never all in the same place at the same time, so most men will only see a couple of them happen throughout the course of their sentence. I’ve seen more than my share. Yet it only took one to do what all those slasher movies couldn’t do—change me forever. I will never be the same since I saw unexpected death come and steal a victim for the first time. I’m not going to soliloquize here about how it put everything in perspective; how life has a deeper meaning for me now. What I do want to tell you is that it helped me get my priorities straight. My new number one priority after that was to get out of here alive, and that hasn’t changed; I’ve almost made it, too.

I don’t care to watch any of those violent types of movies anymore. It’s not that they bother me anymore than they did before, either. It’s because they don’t feel like anything anymore. There’s no longer a thrill when those forbidden moments happen. I guess once you’ve been on the Space Shuttle, getting on a 747 doesn’t really do anything for you anymore.

Of course, no one here knows that this is how I feel. I wear my poker face well. Since we started with Mark Twain, we will end with some of his wisdom, also. He wrote, “A king is a mere artificiality, and so a kings feelings, like the impulses of an automatic doll, are mere artificialities; but as a man, are real, not phantoms. We are anything but kings, but as prisoners we wear many masks that are completely artificial. Every once in a while, though, something gets beyond our armor. And when we watch someone die, most of us become real.”

Serene Afternoons

Those of you that live in or near a major city have probably spent a weekend afternoon at your city’s largest park, and surely found it to be a unique and serene experience. From the joggers and bicyclists cruising the paths to the sport enthusiasts, to the dog lovers out for a stroll with their canine companions, there is a feeling of a gathering taking place for the common good, where all have left their troubles at home and come only to enjoy what nature and community have to offer. Even those of you who have never experienced this personally have surely seen cinematic evidence of a day in New York City’s Central Park, and can relate to what I’m describing.

Now picture the same Sunday in the park, only with all of its participants shirtless, tattooed convicts doing time for murder, drug dealing, and bank robbery. This is your typical weekend afternoon on a prison yard. (Those of you still picturing Central Park, remember that the distinction lies in the fact that we’ve been CONVICTED.)

Most of us are forced to work in some sort of trivial prison job during the week, so by the time the weekend rolls around we’re ready for some fun. So on a warm weekend day, we pour out of our cell blocks after lunch, and converge on the prison’s recreation yard, creating a spectacle (and threat) with a unique identity.

Rather than leave it to your imagination, let me take you on a tour so you can see for yourself:

As you pass through the metal detectors and get patted down, there’s a little shack where you can check out a ball, Frisbee, board game, jump rope, etc. You give the clerk your ID in exchange for what you want, and he’ll give it back when you return it.

There’s a half mile track around the outside of the whole yard. Some guys are jogging on it, occasionally stopping to do push ups or lunges, others are walking in groups of two or three or four, discussing everything from ex-girlfriends to prison politics.

There’s a full court basketball game with bleachers full of spectators. These guys are good.

A softball game. You get it over the prison’s wall, it’s a home run! Interestingly, the aluminum bats are NEVER used as weapons. They would then be taken away, and no one is willing to sacrifice that. It’s an unspoken RULE.

A row of guys laying on towels, suntanning, with radios on their ears, who knows where they have escaped to?

The Native American sweat lodge. Although considered a deeply spiritual and sacred part of Native American tradition, they will occasionally invite a non-native to join them. It is an honor and a privilege, and should not be taken lightly. A small domed bamboo structure covered in canvas, with heated rocks inside, much like a sauna. Also, the Native Americans are the only ones still allowed to smoke in prison (for Federal prison, at least). They are given a small amount of tobacco each week to smoke out of a pipe.

A group of men in a circle, taking turns “spitting” their own rap. Usually the next guy in line is expected to weave his verse(s) into the theme of the last guy’s either building on it or trying to make the last guy sound silly. There’s plenty of rules, though. You never talk about a guys mom, and definitely want to keep from calling anyone a “bitch.” That will get you killed. But these guys all know the rules, and have a good time. You better be good if you want to join in, though, they have no problem letting you know if you’re not up to their standards.

The Handball courts are always packed. Handball is one of the few sports that a guy can win based entirely on his own ability, so the Handball champion has supreme bragging rights. You better be in shape for that one, though.

There’s also just a whole lot of guys standing around. You’ll see groups of five, even ten guys just jawing away. You would think that the administration would have a problem with this, that they don’t want people getting together plotting, but I heard the Warden of one of these joints say something once that rings oh-so-true. He told his officers, “If you see two guys talking to each other, break ’em up and find out what they’re saying. If you see three or more talking, don’t worry about it, one of them is mine.” How do you like that!

Occasionally, some sort of problem will break out. Maybe it’s a fight, maybe even a killing. When this happens, the protocol is always the same. The guard in the fun tower starts shooting in the air, a voice booms over a loudspeaker that says, “GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!” which you do quickly, or you could get shot). However many officers are available come storming onto the yard to break it up. Believe me, there are a bunch of them trying to be heroes. You don’t want any part of them. The first time it happens it can be a little unsettling, but you quickly come to expect it a few times each season. The big gang fights are a little worse, but now’s not the time for that.

Once in a blue moon, someone will actually try to make a run on the wall or the fence. That never ends well for him. Prison breaks do happen, but not in broad daylight with the guards in towers with itchy trigger fingers who spend their whole lives waiting for such an event. I suppose it’s up to the warden whether they go for your knees or not, but the ones I’ve talked to tell me that they go for the biggest part of the body—the center of the chest (or back). Good luck, Clint Eastwood.

For the most part, we manage to exist peacefully and even find some happiness in our little fenced-in patch of sunshine. It’s not quite reminiscent of Manet’s The Luncheon on the Grass, or Seurat's A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, but then, what is? One joint I was in even had its own little population of cats. They were spoiled rotten! Guys would buy tuna and mackerel from the commissary and bring it out to the furry little things, sometimes three times a day. Funny, I never saw one of the cats try to make a break for it.

Why am I here?

You may be wondering by now, “What’s this guy doing in a Maximum Security prison? He doesn’t seem like a killer.” Let me tell you, you’re soooo right. In fact, I haven’t always been in a Max Security joint. I started out in a fairly calm Medium Security Institution, but an unfortunate incident involving a 300 pound Nazi and a burrito compromised that. I’m not sure whether I blame the 300 pound Nazi or the burrito more, but let me tell you what happened, and you can decide for yourselves.

As we’ve already discussed, you cannot always choose who your cellmate is going to be around here. So I happened to draw a big skinhead fella named “Country” (never a good thing) (Think Deliverance) who had the brains of a rhesus monkey and the brawn of an 800 pound Silverback. I’m a cordial enough guy, so I basically gave this guy his space, respected his right to his opinions, and tried like hell to get along with him. You find that even with someone you can’t stand, there are moments of a mutual laughter and understanding.

Anyways, every Friday night, the prison would rent a couple movies and show them on the TV in the cell block (through a VCR in an office somewhere). Since this was kind of a special occasion, and they were showing a movie we wanted to see, me and a few of the guys all pitched in with some commissary food out of our lockers to make burritos. This guy named Red had a recipe that was absolutely out of this world—oh man, there was pepperoni, chili, mozzarella cheese, spices, vegetables—they were GOOD. We ended up being able to buy some tortilla shells from a guy who smuggled them out of the kitchen for a decent price, and we were in business. When they were all cooked up and put together, we had enough for four a piece, with one or two left over that we donated to a guy we liked but didn’t have any money at the time to pitch in.

The burritos were nice and fat, and I like to share, so I took two of them upstairs to my cell and offered my celly some free dinner. He declined, said he wasn’t hungry. I reminded him that these were very tasty, and that he would miss a treat if he didn’t eat at least one, but he was adamant in his refusal. I shrugged, and went down, got a soda, and set up my chair for the movie. A couple hours later, with a full belly (I ate ALL 4!) and some good goosebumps behind me (the movie was The Ring, creepy...), I decided to go out to the recreation yard for the last half hour it was open, and then come back to the cell to get ready for a shower.

When I walked in the cell, the big Nazi was sitting there, and looked up and said, “Where’s my burrito?” No kidding.

My response was something like, “Huh?”
“I want my burrito. That’s really #@!!ed up that you’re not going to share with me,” he said.
“But I TRIED TO GIVE YOU ONE!” I replied.
“I don’t care about that, I want one now.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I want my @#?!ing burrito!”
“But I offered, you said no, and then I went and ATE THEM! The only way you can get them now is on the way out!”

Perhaps he didn’t appreciate my pointing out the obvious. Or, this sudden burst of logic was more than he could handle. Maybe, just maybe, this was the first time he realized he actually wasn’t getting a burrito, and the disappointment overwhelmed him. I’ll never really know what made him reach out and punch me. A nice two-piece, once in the belly and once right on the chin. I was, needless to say, a little surprised.

I’m no small fry either, folks. And even though this guy was out there on the weight pile bench-pressing the equivalent of a VW Bug, he FAILED to knock me down. I actually stood there stunned for a second (both of us, really), before I looked up and said, “That really wasn’t cool. Why did you do that!?” (As lame as it sounds, it’s the truth.)

“Pack your @#?! and get out of MY cell!” was his response. I think he was really expecting a knock out.

In prison, there’s something we call “checking in.” It was going to the guards and asking them to put you in the “hole” for your own protection. That’s basically what this guy was telling me to do. It is seen as the ultimate sign of weakness, and you will never live it down. Unless it’s truly necessary, it’s simply not an option.

“That’s not an option,” I reminded him.
Apparently, that was the ONLY other option, because that’s when he jumped on me again. I was ready this time. It was on. I had no choice but to defend myself.

Most prison fights only last a few seconds. A lot of guys will carefully plan their attack so that there are cops close by then they take off on someone, that way they get their point across, but the cops come break it up before the other guy can get his feet underneath him and fight back. This time, however, there wasn't a cop in sight. We were going to have to do battle.

I held my own for a while, and we exchanged blows back and forth as we moved up and down the cell block. He was STRONG, and his punches hurt, but I got off enough of my own to keep him from overpowering me. Then he changed his strategy, and it was all over for the home team. He stopped punching, and actually started PICKING ME UP and throwing me at stuff. Not only did this begin a process of me getting a serious ass-whooping, but the stuff I was bouncing off of make a lot of noise, and that’s when the cops came running. By the time they got there, this guy was sitting on my chest punching me in the face, and I really wasn’t upset for the final bell to be rung. They took us both to the hole, and charged us with fighting.

The aftermath was this: The administration doesn’t buy any self-defense crap. They figure if you were fighting, you did something wrong, and get what you have coming. The don’t like violence in their “softer” prisons, and once they took a look at the video of the fight, decided that one of us had to go. We couldn’t co-exist in the same prison anymore. They chose me. They wrapped up my file, and shipped me out within a matter of weeks, and I landed in Leavenworth Federal Maximum Security Penitentiary. The big time, baby.

So here I am. I’m not in Leavenworth anymore. They closed it down and made it a lower security level. But I’m still in the Pen, and will be until I get out. I don’t fit in here, I don’t have the right attitude. I’m too reasonable. No matter though, this is where I'll stay. But I’ve seen a lot that’s worth remembering, and can tell you a few stories, so maybe it’s all worth while. I just roll with the punches.

A Dose Of Reality

Here’s something kind of fun. The whole inspiration for this website in the first place was seeing a couple of really bad movies about (or depicting) prison, and thinking to myself, “ya know, they probably believe it’s really like that.” But really, there is just not that much realism in prison cinema. A couple flicks have hit it right on, however. So what I thought I’d do is list the top 10 most authentic prison movies, and then tell you the ones NOT to believe. Here goes:

For a dose of reality:

1. The Shawshank Redemption—This movie captures the essence of a prisoners existence. From the sobering loneliness Andy felt alone in his cell at night to the irreplaceable camaraderie he felt with Red. This movie is just how it is. It’s a grind - the same thing all day every day, there’s always an us us, them battle between convicts and cops, and only the strong (and smart) survive.
2. Blood in, Blood out—This ultra violent gang-ridden prison portrays the fear one can live in when things aren’t going right. It also represents pretty accurately how hard it is to understand prison when you first get there.
   
3. Escape From Alcatraz—Shows how easy it is for the guards to control somebody. 30 days in the hole is a bitch. People don’t realize just what it takes inside to keep these cops from breaking us. Oh yeah, and men really do escape, but it is not easy.
4. Cool Hand Luke—Something about the way Struther Martin talks to people resonates oh-so-true. You really don’t want to have a “failure to communicate with the boss man” around here.
   
5. The Green Mile—After you remove the elements of the supernatural, what you get is a story about the conflict between prison guards about how to treat people. Dignity is often checked at the door for convicts, but some cops would rather you keep it.
6. Goodfellas—Money and power can get you special treatment in here. If you know the right people, the cops will look the other way sometimes, and corruption isn’t hard to come by.
7. Blow—Just at the very end, when you see that George Jung has been reduced to spending his days gardening on the prison yard. That’s what they do to you—take away everything you had and replace it with what amounts to nothing. Yet you still find some joy in that nothing.
8. Oz—While not a movie, this HBO series got one thing so perfect that I couldn’t keep it off this list. The way the prisoners all interact with each other is right on, with so many different people striving to be in charge. That’s the way they act here, everyone wants to be a chief, and no one wants to be an Indian. Respect comes from power.
9. Natural Born Killers—During the prison riot scene, I get goosebumps. Once things get out of hand in prison, it deteriorates quickly. No one has much of anything to lose. That’s my biggest fear really—dying in a riot in here. Once the mob mentality takes over, the only way to stop it is with brute force. Reason goes out the window.
10. I’m leaving this spot open for any future movie that manages to portray the actual number of stupid people in prison in a compelling way.

And finally, here are a few things to stay away from if you’re looking for reality:

1. Any movies where Jean Claude Van Damme or Steven Seagal end up in jail—Not only do tough guys like that just not exist, but if they did, they would undoubtedly piss enough people off that their impressive ass-kicking sills would no longer matter.
2. Prison chick movies—Yeah right. You wish.
3. Most any comedy that is predicated on the premise that forced sodomy is funny, and somehow convinces people that “dropping the soap” will lead to an unwanted intrusion. Bend at the KNEES, people.
4. Ernest goes to jail—I’m not sure I need to explain.

Until we meet again...