Someone to Miss

Each hour of every day you miss someone.  Your wife and kids, parents, siblings, cousins, even the familiar face you saw every day when you stopped for a morning cup of coffee on the way to work.  It hurts to think about all the experiences, the potential memories, that you're missing behind bars.  Birthdays, anniversaries, ball games, recitals, snow days, sick days – in your mind you convince yourself that everything is special.  You also begin to believe that all those people you miss so much will start to forget about you as they go on with their lives.  As much as that hurts, it’s better than feeling nothing at all. 

  

Compared to many of my fellow inmates, I feel fortunate because I actually have people to miss.  They serve as something to hold onto, to keep my head above water when I feel like I'm drowning, helping me get through the tough days.  These special relationships also give me hope for when I get out, looking forward to rebuilding and making new memories.  I don’t know how I would make it without the support of those who love and miss me.

Unfortunately, my situation is not the norm.  Most of the people I have met inside are alone and forgotten.  It is heartbreaking to see them go day after day without making a phone call, sending or receiving a letter, having a visitor, and never having any money show up on their account to purchase items from the canteen.  It is easy to see how one could lose hope.  I would rather cry every day for those I long to see than have no one at all.

Really?

Welcome to another installment of “If You Don’t Laugh, You’re Gonna Cry,” alternatively known this week as “Has My Life Really Come to This?”  A group of us have shortened this lament to one word:  “Really?”  It’s our code to signify otherwise absurd situations that are commonplace behind bars, for instance:

• Sitting at lunch debating the best way to sneak napkins out of the Chow Hall (Yes, Napkins!  Really!)
• Getting to know guys with cool nicknames like Fats, Shorty, Wild Man, Main Man, Half-Baked, Thug, Little B, Big B, and Blank.  (Really?)
• Waking up at 4 am to pee and having to wait in line!  (Really?)
• Watching a blind man in a wheelchair get searched by the guards when leaving the Chow Hall.  (Really?)
• Then seeing the blind man in the wheelchair nearly get in a fight with the guy who pushes his chair for hiding 12, count ‘em 12, milk cartons in the chair.  (Really?)
• Sewing a secret pocket in your shorts to conceal condiment packets that are banned from the Chow Hall.  (Really?)
• Not only having the TV relentlessly tuned to daily reruns of “Charmed,” but watching two guys fight over which tv witch is hotter.  (Really?)
• Discovering from your neighbors’ conversations that the stories on Jerry Springer are totally legit.  (Really?)

That’s it for this week!  Back soon with more.  Really!

Get Him a P-Number

Without being able to find humor in the face of adversity, a person can go crazy.  As you might expect, we have plenty of adversity in prison and therefore an abundance of laughter, too.  It helps us cope.  Often, the humor will be a result of a wry observation on prison life.  For example: 

1. We can’t buy pencils, because they can be made into a weapon, but we can buy razors!

2. The Dairy Drink we are sometimes offered in lieu of milk lists “Non-Dairy Creamer” as its #1 ingredient.

Both ridiculous, both true!

The second major source of comedy is what’s known behind bars as “That Boy Just Ain’t Right” or “Get him a P-Number”. (A P-Number is the ID given to inmates on the psychiatric unit.)  Characters who fall into these categories may not be intending any humor, but their peculiar comments and antics are entertaining.  The two main actors in our unit’s Theatre of the Absurd are my old Appalachian mountain buddy Billy Joe and a fellow known as Half-Baked. (He got that nickname after someone commented, “His Mama popped him out of the oven a little early.”)  The anecdotes I’m about to tell have become part of Unit Lore.  Now it only takes one keyword dropped into a conversation to set off the laughter.

Ailment: 

One morning, I pass Billy Joe in the hallway and note that he is looking particularly disheveled and wan.  Against my better judgment, I ask, “How ya doin’ Billy Joe?”  
    “Not so good, man,” he replies.  “I’m sicker than a Motherf_______.”
(Keep in mind that Billy Joe has his own sickness rating scale that is a little different from the one your doctor uses to rate your pain.  From least sick to most, the scale goes:  (1) not so good, (2) sick as a 3-legged dog, (3) sicker than a Mother______, and (4) cut down the pines (to make him a pine coffin).
    So I reply, “How so Billy?”
    “Well,” he says, “the doctor tells me I got 13 ailments.  Six major ones and eight more.”
    “You sure about that Billy?  6 and 8 is 14, not 13.”
    “Dayumm,” he sighs, “I’s getting’ sicker by the day.”

Choice:

Billy Joe walks into the tv room and announces:  “I’m a goin’ home boys!”
    “What you talkin’ about BJ?”
    “Well, they got new rules about Armed Career Criminals and it’s getting’ me out!”
    “You sure it applies to you, Billy?”
    “Hell yes!  It’s RADIOACTIVE!”
    “Say what?”
    Billy Joe stares at us as if we are stupid children and repeats, “Yeah, goin’ back in time, y’know?  Radioactive!”  He shakes his head and walks out, mumbling, “No use talkin’ to these idiots.”

Ghosts:

    Another evening in the tv room, Half-Baked leans over to ask his neighbor a question.  Those of us within earshot assume it will be a question about the tv show.  But no, that would make too much sense.  Once he sees that he has everybody’s attention, Half-Baked poses the following riddle:  “To earn your freedom, would you rather spend one week alone at Alcatraz or one week alone at a closed down Insane Asylum?”
    I chuckle lightly, assuming the others will, too, but to my surprise they fall deep in thought.  I offer up that all things being equal, I’d choose Alcatraz, because from there at least you can see the lights of San Francisco.  Everybody looks at me as if I'm crazy.  What about the ghosts haunting both locations?  The tortured souls seeking revenge?  As the only non-believer in evil spirits, I take a step back while the debate heats up.  One guy eventually decides he would rather serve eight years here than spend even one night with the ghosts.  Finally, however, Half-Baked tops them all.  His face grows serious as he prepares to drop some knowledge.  In a quiet, solemn tone he explains, “Think about it guys.  Alcatraz got the ghosts of gangsters, rapists and murderers.  An insane asylum’s got women.  So you could be bangin’ some hot ghost-chicks, not fightin’ for your life!  Easy choice!”  At that, Half-Baked leans back with a satisfied look on his face.  I'm waiting for the laughter.  It does not come.  As I walk away, though, I hear the conversation turn to what it would be like to have sex with a ghost. 
    I wish I was making this up.  As odd or funny as these stories may be, they are so commonplace here that no one ever doubts their veracity.  I’m just thankful for the free comedy!

Crazy is the New Normal

In prison you quickly realize that your definition of normal needs an adjustment.  Allow me to illustrate.  Start off by establishing in your mind a “Sanity Scale” with a range of 1 through 10.  1 is a well-adjusted, self-actualized person, 5 is someone slightly off-kilter, and 10 is a totally batshit crazy individual.  This is not an even distribution, but your typical bell curve with a few 1’s and 10s on the end.  Everyone would like to believe they are a 1, but most of us are more 2.5-3.  So, as with any good measuring tool, we must properly calibrate it.  To do this, we will consider one of the more – if not the most – popular conspiracy theories heard in prison:  the true cause of the 9/11 attacks.   

You will not have to look hard to find a person who will tell you that the U.S. orchestrated the attacks.  Maybe outside prison, that person would be considered a 5 on the Sanity Scale.  Depending on how outlandish the rhetoric, he might even approach a 10.  In the Bizarro World of federal prison, this theory would not rate above a 2, because most inmates would agree with it.  I have given up debating the topic.  After all, nothing can change the mind of a zealot.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, if you consider the entertainment value), 9/11 plots are only run of the mill conspiracy plots in prison.  Each of the following theories merits at least a 5 on the Sanity Scale in my opinion, but in here they barely move the needle.   

In no particular order, here’s the rest of the Top 9 Most Popular Conspiracy Theories in prison:

1. During Hurricane Katrina, the U.S. government blew the levees on purpose in order to wipe out the poor neighborhoods and make New Orleans a “white city”.

2. The BP oil spill was a government plot, too.  The spill could have been capped immediately, but was not, so the U.S. could control the world’s oil supply (how this makes sense, I can’t explain).

3. The Illuminati run the world.  For example, the Pope (chief of Illuminati) told John Boehner to step down or he would be eliminated.

4. The flu shot given in prison contains a microscopic tracking device, because Big Brother is always watching.

5. The U.S. government creates and tests new diseases on prisoners, in order to find the best way to eliminate all black people.

6. The food in prison is doped for many reasons, but the two main ones are estrogen (to make us all gay) and a secret testosterone-killing agent to make us weak.

7. The recent Supreme Court Gay Marriage ruling is a plot to “gayify” America.

8. The light towers give off signals that weaken people in order to control the masses.

These theories are widely accepted truths in prison, which leads me to ask, “Are the mentally unstable more likely to end up in prison or does being in prison make you mentally unstable?”  Which then leads to the bigger issue of whether or not inmates are being given the help they need to reenter society.  From this side of the wall, the view is bleak.  Mental illness, for the most part, goes untreated.  Unless you are aware enough to go ask for help, treatment is just a few pills, and the people who need help the most don’t have it together enough to seek help.  Something needs to be done.  I don’t have an answer, but at least now I know there’s a problem and can work on being part of the solution.

Where Can I Get Me One of Them Yamahas?

Religion in prison is not just a spiritual salve.  For many inmates it offers immediate material benefits if you can play the hustle.  It’s not just about faith, strength, brotherhood or forgiveness of sins.  It’s about getting one over on The Man.  Which plays into an important rule of prison life:  If you can get something more than what is standard issue, you must take it.  Even if you don’t need it or want it, you take it solely because you can get away with it, thus sticking it to the administration, AKA The Man.  This is why a guy who is always complaining that it’s too hot, who wears shorts in the dead of winter and walks barefoot on the yard once the temperature hits 50 degrees also has four blankets.  Is he supposed to have four blankets? No.  Does he need four blankets or ever use them?  Of course not.  Why then does he worry over these blankets, hiding them during shakedowns and constantly fretting that they might be confiscated?  Because they represent his victory over The Man.  Other guys hold onto their jackets past the turn-in date, hoard plastic utensils swiped from the chow hall, or pack a shoebox full of condiment packets they will never use.  You’re not supposed to have these things, so having them is a win.

How do these scams relate to religion?  The key is that various religious traditions come with privileges.  For instance, if you are Jewish, you can get kosher food daily and order special meals at Passover.  I have never seen such a clamoring for Matzo!  Approaching Passover, interest in conversion to Judaism really picks up.  One guy I overheard say, “Instead of converting, where can I get one of them Yamahas?”  As if wearing a yarmulke alone would be enough to qualify him for a Jewish diet.

If you’re not into kosher food, is it possible you may have Native American heritage?  If so, you can wear a brightly colored headband.  But even better, you can participate in sweat lodge ceremonies that include smoking a ceremonial pipe filled with real tobacco!  Now that smoking is banned in all Bureau of Prisons facilities, an amazing number of prisoners with heavy tobacco habits have discovered Native American ancestors.

Not a smoker?  Perhaps Islam will appeal.  Muslims are entitled to a prayer rug, prayer oils, and special bag lunches of food each night during Ramadan to break their daily fasts.  Prayer rugs are multi-purpose, of course, and come in handy to keep your feet warm in the morning.  As you might imagine, school cafeteria-quality linoleum tiles get cold, and no self-respecting prisoner would ever allow his bare feet to touch the floor.  As for the prayer oils, they work in a pinch as a substitute cologne when a loved one comes to visit.  Just splash on a little prayer oil, and you’re ready to see your wife or girlfriend (hopefully not at the same time, if you happen to have both – one guy did that and ended up with neither).

And then there is Rastafarianism, which comes with one major perk, arguably the best of all, the Rasta Crown.  This is a black knit skullcap with yellow, green and red stripes that is allowed to be worn in places where everyone else must remove their hats, such as the chow hall, the library, and medical.  Though this privilege also applies to the Jewish yarmulke and Muslim Kufi, the Crown wins on style points (think Bob Marley vs. your local rabbi for who looks coolest).  Plus, the Crown is not easily acquired.  The Rastafarians are very discerning at weeding out uncommitted wannabees.

I understand that the whole idea of adopting a religion just to garner a few privileges seems hypocritical.  But prison is a unique culture with mores that are different from the outside world's.  It all comes back to the Scam The Man mentality.  Get yours, even if and especially if The Man doesn’t want you to have it.  While I don’t condone thinking this way, particularly in regards to religion, I’ve come to appreciate it.  Now I just have to figure out the best way to tell the family about my new name:  Rudeboy Mohammed “Old Bear” Ibromowitz.